#AND NOW I AM THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS AND AM NOT ALLOWED TO TELL ANYONE ELSE

[necroliberty]

So because this is amazing and because I am hyperfocusing on Gravity Falls. Let me share a bit of Amelia's long-lost sister, Kelly Ness. Okay, they aren't sisters anymore, but still.

Kelly fell on the blue grass of a random dimension. She wasn't the type to keep note. The atmosphere was different, somehow safe and dangerous at the time. But again, she didn't particularly keep a note on things like that. Kelly just made a bee line to a mailbox inside either various stickers added to the tin. Mabels had a knack to give stickers to everything. But Kelly just gave them a cursory glance as her right eye gave her the info on each. Giving the coordinate to each stickers place of creation. She should make note of getting stickers for respectives Mabels. Sometimes, it was the only thing that could tell Kelly where to actually send the damm things. Eventually, she opened the mailbox with a specific key and looked through the letters. Some were boring ads that she threw around. No one needed those. Some were Stanfords incredible writings, making sure to say exactly who and where it should be sent. Other times, it was Stanley's doing letters of his own. They were often hard to send back. Mabels were also there. It was obvious with how much stickers and colors her letters had. She practically never had to read the content to know exactly where to go. A bit more, and she was wondering if Mabels just knew the mailbox wasn't actually magic. The rarest were of Dipper and McGucket. For whatever reason, these two either didn't bother make letters or weren't the type to fall in a portal. "Or maybe they both want to be left alone?"

She blinked, and her right eye started to smoke under the intense heat. Forcing Kelly to keel over and grip her eye as the letters floated around her. Smoke from her eye, holding onto them with annoyance. Through her right eye, she could always see something the one who spied. Well, what he saw, to be specific. A mirror was right in front of the demon. A man in his early 20s with brown curly hair broke through by antlers that seemed to either spill ink or petrol from every imperfection in the wood. His eyes were big, staring down the mirror for some kind of stability. Not to mention his long tail swiping at the air behind him. His clothes were still looking like a preacher from a school play. He looked incredibly annoyed. This was a very bad day. "Vulture, do I need to remind you not to insult the likes of me so blatantly."

Kelly wanted to scream that this was stupid, and she was allowed to ask questions. But she also knew better. Days like these, you needed to placate him. So Kelly still held the expression of pain and started to add a quiver to her voice. "I am sorry, I didn't mean for my words to cause harm. I was a fool to even think it in the first place."

The demon stared at his own reflection, closing his eyes too to be able to see her. He vaguely shook his head, making some his hair made of leaves fall to the bed surrounding him. "No, not a fool, just a bad day." He looked down at his hands and feet. His hands were now made of wood, and his feet were deer hooves. He hated this form with such wrath. But his eyes told that he knew better than to take her acting as proof. He didn't trust Bill anymore than she trusted him. He finally closed his eyes again.

Kelly sighed as the pain stopped. She breathed slowly and normally not to let the right eye see her weak. All the letters she had dropped were now safely in her hands, and she looked through them again. Filing them into various pockets in her messenger bag. Making sure she didn't put a letter for the wrong timeline or dimensions.

When she was finally done, she walked away until she could find a loophole in the dimension. Leaving it behind to give letters to family and friends.

This is Kelly Ness as a Mailman. They don't get uniforms because she is the only one.

My smol mini series about the drifting stars au is here!! Ft letters to Dipper!! May do more depending on the reception~

[anastasia12]

lower your inhibitions

lower your inhibitions ; simon “ghost” riley.

You love Simon, you really do.

How could you not? How could you not fall for him? He’s the one who rescued you from a fate worse than death, the one who washes your body for you even though the both of you know that you���re fully capable of showering alone (he loves you so much, he’s constantly craving to touch you in any way he can), the one who took apart one of his honorary medals for his services and melted it down so it could be manipulated and turned into the band on your engagement ring.

(Did you know that the medal he used is the one he got from the mission where you two first met, the fateful mission where he both saved and changed your whole entire life?)

And you know that Simon would do absolutely anything for you. He whispers it to you in the dead of night, holding you so close to his chest like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. He lets you be the one who removes his mask, and if he can do something so intimately vulnerable, then you suppose you can do this for him.

This is giving into one of his latest fantasies, one that he’s been hinting at for quite some time now.

You know that his line of work is difficult at best and life-threatening all the time. You know that he bears a heavy burden on his shoulders — it’s not just his weaponry and equipment that weighs him down, but the fact that so many lives are resting in his hands. You do your best to relieve him of any stress when he gets home: a warm meal waiting for him, fresh clothes set out for him to change into, long nights where you spend all your time and energy determined to give him the reward he deserves for being a hero.

He mentions it in passing, usually when you’re so far gone in the throes of pleasure that you don’t even consciously acknowledge his little comments. Sneaky bastard; he’s been making sure it stays ingrained in your subconscious, though.

Baby, I could spend forever here. You’re certain that’s what he was groaning out the last time you had spread your legs for him and allowed him to eagerly lap at your pussy. You’re not entirely too sure, though — the only thing you can clearly remember through the foggy haze of intense passion was the feeling of him pleasuring you with just his mouth and bringing you to climax on his tongue at least twice that night.

You can only imagine what he must have planned for you tonight.

You’re sure that Simon has an insane amount of stamina as a result of his work. The only thing keeping you, his little soon-to-be housewife, still alive from all of these little entanglements is the fact that you love him enough to do anything he asks of you. So when he tells you that the only thing that’ll help him take his mind off of his latest assignment is to have you sitting on his face, you oblige.

According to him, this is a foolproof plan because only an idiot would be thinking about something else when he’s got the prettiest pussy in the world on top of him.

You could feel your face heating up at his vulgar compliment, but you’re not entirely innocent. The heat was building up towards the lower half of your body after that comment, too.

And now you find yourself nervously straddling your fiance, looking into his eyes.

“You know where you need to be, pretty girl,” His voice is already thick with arousal, and you recognize that hungry glint in his eyes. You pray to anyone out there who’s listening to pretty please give you the strength to survive tonight.

“B-but Simon—” You’re whispering, even though this house is the only residence in the area. (Thank God for that; if the two of you had neighbors, they surely would have filed a noise complaint.)

“Yes, my love?” You can recognize the teasing tone in his voice, and you can hear the smirk he must be wearing on his face.

“How am I supposed to… You know, get on your face and let you do what you want when your mask is still on?”

His infamous balaclava with the skull design etched onto the fabric seems to taunt you. It doesn’t scare you, especially since you’re well aware of who the man behind the mask truly is, but you can’t quite figure out why he hasn’t taken it off yet.

“Oh. I didn’t tell you yet?” He has to be smiling underneath the mask because your reaction to his next words is enough to have him chuckling.

“I’m not eating you out ‘til you’re so wet for me that I can feel you dripping through the mask.”

You immediately freeze up, wondering if he truly means what he just said.

(It’s Simon; of course, he meant every word of it.)

“Sweetheart, I thought you were going to be a good girl for me tonight.” The disapproval he douses his words with isn’t real — you know he’s just trying to tease you because it’s what he loves to do. Still, you find yourself nodding your head and slowly but surely making your way up his resting body before you find yourself hovering uncertainly above his face.

You let out an adorable little yelp of surprise as he suddenly grips the back of your thighs and forces you down on his mask-covered face. For a man his size, the strength isn’t surprising, but it’s his stealth and dexterity that always catches you off guard.

“Can’t wait to taste you.” His voice sounds muffled now due to the pressure being applied to his mouth, and you can feel the slight movements of his mouth despite the thick fabric of his balaclava acting as a barrier between you and him. His eyes are already deepening with desire, and you swallow hard, knowing that it’ll please him if you truly give it your all. You’ve known him for what feels like forever, and you’re engaged to the man. There’s no more room for shyness to take root in this relationship.

It’s time for you to lower your inhibitions.

Your first movements are a bit uncertain, but his groan of appreciation acts as reassurance. You move back and forth slowly, carefully grinding against the mask, and occasionally, your clit will brush against the covered tip of his nose, only adding to your pleasure and allowing you to give into your depravity without worry.

“Just like that, love. You’re doing so well for me.” You can barely make out the words he’s saying, but you give him a shaky smile as you continue to grind against him, your hands finding purchase on the pillow he’s resting his head on. You grip it, trying to hold yourself steady as you continue to buck against him, your arousal practically leaking out of you, a constant stream of juices that is soaking through the fabric, leaving a distinct wet stain on the front of it.

Simon grins at a mission successfully accomplished. Not only can he feel your arousal through the mask, but you’re so soaked for him that he’s certain he can taste you already, too.

One strong hand grips your waist, pausing your jerky movements, and you look down, blinking and trying to ground yourself into reality. You watch as he uses his other hand to tear off the balaclava, tossing it somewhere on the floor of your shared bedroom.

His chin and lips are already shining just the slightest — just how wet for him are you? He gives you a cheeky grin, and you’re still so close to him that when he speaks, his lips brush against your slick folds.

“Don’t stop now, darling. You promised you’d sit on my face.”

He’s so close to helping you get rid of the ache in between your legs, and you find yourself lowering yourself fully, your soft thighs encasing his head, and your soaking cunt landing right on his mouth. You’re already leaking all the way down to his chin, and his groans of pleasure only serve to make you even wetter.

He can’t speak right now; not when he’s too occupied with the meal you’ve so generously decided to grace him with. The room is filled with the obscene sounds of him lapping up everything you’re spilling out.

His tongue slides through your entrance with ease, and you moan in ecstasy, throwing your head back as you start to instinctually buck against his face, practically riding his tongue.

He’s sucking up your arousal, eager to please you but also insanely happy at the position he’s finally in. This is exactly what he needed: pure, unadulterated access to your pussy. Your thighs are surrounding him, and he uses both hands to squeeze harshly at your ass. The slight pain only makes you squeal and jerk up just the slightest, but he growls before forcing you back down on his face, right where you belong.

The ministrations of his tongue are entirely too much. The noises the two of you are making sounds as if the two of you are filming a porno, and you know you can’t last much longer.

Using both of your hands, your fingers curl into the thick locks of his hair, tugging just enough to him groan against your pussy, and you mewl out his name as you cum all over his face.

Your body feels like jelly; this isn’t the first time that Simon has fucked you boneless before, but this orgasm was intense. You think you can still feel some aftershocks of it, and you moan out weakly as you struggle to remain in your seated position on his face.

He’s still lapping everything up, his tongue still exploring every centimeter of yourself you have to offer him. After that climax, your poor pussy is feeling too sensitive, and every time he slightly moves his head, his nose continues to bump against your clit. You’re ultra-aware of every movement of his, extra susceptible to every flick of his tongue and the pleasure is only painfully heightened. You’re too weak to fight him off and while giving in will surely leave you unable to leave the bed all day tomorrow, you can’t find it in yourself to ask him to stop.

“Si-mon.” You whine out his name, but it comes out garbled and broken. Your mind doesn’t know how to react to the constant pleasure he’s inflicting on you and your sensitive little cunt. Your body, though, is eager to receive more of what he has to offer. It’s evident in the way your hole starts to clench around nothing every time he teasingly withdraws his tongue to force you to beg him for more. Even though you feel like you’re unable to move, you still find enough strength left in you to grind against him, rubbing your pussy and spreading your slick all over his face before you cum once again, this one leaving you all the more disorientated.

His visage is a sight to behold: cheeks are flushed red, eyes wild and dark with desire, the lower half of his face stained with your cum and arousal. You should be embarrassed at what a mess you’ve made of your fiance, but he only licks his lips. His eyes almost roll back as he realizes the taste of you will forever be on his tastebuds.

“Taste so good, love.” He gasps out. His hair is messy from the way you’ve shamelessly tugged at his locks. “I need more. You gonna give it to me?”

You’re nodding, but he doesn’t even wait for your affirmation before forcing you down onto his mouth once again.

He wasn’t lying when he made the claim that he could live in between your legs forever. After tonight, you know you’re never going to deny him the chance to prove it, though.

comment if you want your @ in heree

[cheapshrimpysheep]

Hiii!! is it okay if I request a comfort(?) scenario/headcanons with Vil, Idia, Malleus and Lilia where a female protagonist feels self-conscious about having stretch marks and/or cellulite, thanks (Sorry if it's not spelled well, English is not my native language)

COMMENTS: So... even though I myself am a woman, I genuinely never saw stretch marks or cellulite as something bad or ugly, and I still don't. So maybe making the characters share the same vision as me would be accurate? The only exception to complete indifference is Vil, but not in the way you might be thinking.

Btw, I didn't see any point in writing this in a context other than an already advanced relationship given the topic. Fortunately, the 4 characters are 18 years or older so it doesn't end up being... you know, too weird.

I explain at the end why I couldn't write anything for Malleus or Lilia. But despite that, I hope you and all like what I managed to write. ❤️

CHARACTERS: Vil Schoenheit / Idia Shroud

TAGS: Fluff; Fem!Reader; Comfort; In a Relationship; Suggestive(?)

WORD COUNT: An average of 580 words per character

CONTEXT: I don't think it would make sense for two people to have this kind of intimate conversation outside of a romantic or even sexual relationship. So in that situation, he and you would be in a relationship.

This was an insecurity of yours from the beginning. After all, your boyfriend was none other than Vil Schoenheit. It would be worrying enough if he were a normal model, but he's not only a super model but one of the biggest in all of Twisted Wonderland.

He had already noticed that since you started dating you seemed more worried and less confident about your appearance and that was when he said to you:

“I am the one who needs to be perfect, not you. If I wanted to date a model I could do it, but my standards in romantic relationships are others. Different from some of my colleagues in this field. I will always help you to further improve your image if you wish and feel comfortable with it. Please don't see this as me wanting you to change your appearance, but as an attempt to make you as beautiful on the outside as you are on the inside.” He pauses for a second. “However, for some reason, there's something that bothers me about the possibility of making you start living the same lifestyle as me.”

But he would only get the answer to why that bothered him later.

“The truth is: you are my escape. I don't feel the pressure to be perfect with you because... you know I'm not and yet you look at me with more admiration than anyone else. You are my escape from the superficial and futile parts of my professional life. When you live in these types of environments, you start to lose track of what really matters and what really does you good. Thinking about you being swallowed up by this... and losing your genuine smile... because of me... I can't allow it! Please know that no opinion about your appearance matters other than your own. And it wasn't just that that made me fall in love.”

This may have made you feel more comfortable and confident about your appearance again, but as the relationship became more serious and you became more intimate, eventually your problem with stretch marks and cellulite began to affect your mood again.

At home, Vil had massage sessions from time to time not only to help him relax but also for other healthy effects it had on his body. He thought that now that he was dating you, maybe it would be interesting for him to buy massage products and for you to start having these sessions with each other.

“You deserve a massage probably even more than I do.” He tells you, referring to the hardships you go through with Grim and the others.

And that's when he realizes from your hesitation that something about your appearance has bothered you again. He asks you to tell him and that you can trust him. After all, if you couldn't, what kind of boyfriend would he be? And you end up talking about your stretch marks and cellulite.

“I see.” He says understandingly. “I've never had them myself, but I've met many women in the beauty industry who talk about it to each other. Not to mention the advertisements for products for it. Do you remember what I told you when we first started dating and you felt less confident about your appearance? I am the one who needs to be perfect, not you. Furthermore, from what I understand, these marks are usually found on areas around the stomach, hips, breasts, and thighs.” He looks at you seductively. “You don't really think I would have any kind of criticism if you gave me the honor of seeing these parts of your body, do you? Why don't you let me give you that massage? I'll show you what I truly find beautiful about you.”

At first you didn't even think about it. It was only when the relationship started to get more serious and you started to sleep together from time to time that you started to worry.

Especially when Idia started having less of a problem walking around you shirtless. And giving hints about how he would like to see you wearing his shirts, without pants.

One day he says he wants to acknowledge the elephant in the room, but instead of asking why you hide your body so much, he asks if you still don't consider him worthy of seeing his girlfriend comfortably sexy.

“You never hid the fact that you like to see me shirtless.” He says while playing some game on the computer. “I also want to see you like that. Not necessarily shirtless, that's another level, but like, you know I don't like to embody the confident handsome guy who likes to walk around with little clothing on." His hair starts to turn hot pink.” But... I like how you look at me when I do. And what you say. Which I never understood ‘cause I don't even have good physics. But you do! You would be that character that every player simps for.” He sinks into his chair. “But I understand, getting that kind of look from me is disgusting...”

You may have your insecurities, but he has them too. And finally you feel the need and the comfort enough to reveal to him that that isn’t the problem, that you would also like him to find you hot as you find him and that the problem is your marks.

“What marks? Like scars? Don't tell me you have cool battle scars, like doesn't that make a person even sexier?”

You say you're not talking about scars, but stretch marks and cellulite.

“... Yah... sorry, I think I rolled a natural 1 in intelligence for this. What was that again?”

You say they are marks, irregularities and dimples in the skin and that he can search them on the internet. He does that.

“It says that these are natural things that don't do any harm. But they can impact self-image.” He researches a little more. “Wait! Are you trying to tell me that you find these strips and irregularities ugly enough to the point that you have to hide them? THIS?” He smiles mockingly “Oh no! How horrible! Your skin looks like... skin! What a tragedy!”

He will be very happy if you can laugh with him.

“As if I would even notice that. It says here that these marks are usually found on areas around the stomach, hips, breasts, and thighs. Do you really think that if I saw these parts of your body it would be little stripes and dimples that would catch my attention?” The pink in his hair becomes more intense. “I may be a shut-in but don't lump me in with those worms who define their standards based on adult videos. I can assure you that's not what you'll have to worry about if you take your clothes off in front of me.”

He finally looks at you with a seductive look and smiles confidently when he sees that you are flustered.

I really really really tried to imagine scenarios with Malleus or Lilia, but I couldn't think of anything very meaningful.

Malleus wouldn't understand the problem even if you tried to explain it to him because... it doesn't make sense to him. They're just marks. He also has marks, like, on his forehead. Is there something wrong with this?

And Lilia would just laugh for you thinking this is a problem and just tell you to forget about it.

They wouldn't understand, because it wouldn't make any difference to them at all. And that's it.

With Vil and Idia I was able to think of something because they are, like, from this generation, and because one is in the beauty industry and the other is, probably, chronically online, they can see where your insecurity comes from. But for someone like Malleus or Lilia, this type of insecurity has no basis whatsoever. I really don't know what to write with them.

Sorry. 🥺

If you dropped in here out of the blue and want to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[specialgradefckr]

tw: explicit content. sukuna/reader. female!reader, heiain era sukuna. reader is a former courtesan (and not a fancy one, either). sukuna doesn't give a fuck.

It's not uncommon for Sukuna to summon you to his throne room to pleasure him. What is uncommon is for the throne room to be empty when he does.

Today is, unsurprisingly, no different.

Sukuna had ordered you on your knees at his feet, where Uruame stood aside you, plain-faced.

He watches, bored, resting his cheek on his knuckle as foolish lords and sorcerers alike come to him with entreaties for aid, for mercy, for whatever else.

"My lord," one curse user intones, with far too much confidence, "Is that the whore?"

Sukuna tilts his head to the side. You're allowed to glance up at his face while you suck him - he likes it when you do.

Right now, he looks utterly bored.

"This is my whore," He drawls. "Unless you're suggesting I would share?"

There's murmurs, but no one dares answer him. It's not your concern either way.

You gaze up at him, wide eyed. Taking him all the way to the root, stretching so your throat is straight for him, suppressing the urge to gag as you swallow down his cock.

Blinking up at him cutely. Swallowing around his throbbing cock. Am I doing a good job, Su-ku-na~?

Sukuna's lips twist in what other people would call a sneer, but you know the crinkle of his lower set of eyes, the amusement bubbling forth as he snickers menacingly.

(You can also tell that his cock is twitching, ready to blow. Come to think of it, that is quite the advantage, isn't it?(

The curses and curse-users in the room, though, they cower from it. You know to lean into the hand in your hair that pushes you further onto his cock.

A noise of disgust in the background. Feet shuffling, as if impatient.

Let them watch. Let them think what they want, call you what you want.

There's only one person in the room who matters, and his cock is in your mouth. You're a thousand times safer than any of them, even if they don't know it.

His load is hot and salty and a little gross, if you're being honest.

"My lord, are you quite done with that whore already? We've important matters to disgust."

But the utter disdain on his face, the narrowing of red eyes onto the peons before him, the disgust and sensation of his cursed energy -

The sound of his curse slicing through the air. Severing head from body. Gasps and shuffled and bloodied, crunching noises.

Sukuna does it all with one hand petting gently over your head. He doesn't even move, doesn't get up.

He's bitter on your tongue. But you've never felt more safe.

And the power. The knowledge that the most dangerous man in the world would stroke your hair while he slaughtered men too noble for a whore like you.

That is, unmistakably, the sweetest you've ever had.

What is surprising is that the man who visits you later is not Sukuna.

Rather, it's one of the lords who you'd caught lurking silently in the banquet hall.

He wants to know how to earn Sukuna's favor.

"Lord Sukuna is not a difficult man to understand," you say with an indulgent smile. "If you are going to approach him, it should be to offer him something. Otherwise, your life lasts only as long as it amuses him."

This lord is wise, you think, because he pauses a moment before he speaks. "And what does Lord Sukuna desire?"

You shrug. "He likes power, he likes knowledge. I know he has a cursed tool or two that he favors."

Eyes narrowing at you. "What else?" A demanding tone.

"He is a man like any other. You could offer him fine food or drink, but Uruame does that already." You give him a smirk. "You could always offer him entertainment. I do well enough. Would you like to know his favorite positions?"

And at last, the leashed disdain breaks loose, a snarl on the lord's pretty face, "You whore," He raises a hand, "You dare suggest-"

In an instant you drop into the lowest possible bow, head pressed to the floor.

It spares you from the spray of blood that bisects the lord's chest cavity. From what you know of Sukuna, perhaps it would have slashed you, too, had you not knelt in time.

There's silence, for a moment. Maybe he's considering wasting a second slash on you after all.

"What did he want?"

"Your favor, my lord," You answer without hesitation, "He thought I might know a way for him to earn it."

"Hmn." A grunt, half-annoyed, half-mocking; your sign that he is not upset, and you may raise your head to confirm his expression.

There's a light twitch on his lips. "And he thought he might find my favor in the private quarters of my personal possession?"

You shrug. "Most men are not particularly attached to their whores."

"Hmph." The scoff is his dismissal of the topic. When he turns to leave, you know to follow.

It's a short stroll until you reach the courtyard, a well-curated garden. Sukuna strides through it, wordlessly, a giant out of place amongst flowers.

Ever faithfully, you trail behind him. All the way to a great tree at the edge of a path, one he leans back against.

You stand there, waiting.

"What do you want?"

It's not a question you ever expected to hear from him. "What do I want... right now?"

"Hmph," Sukuna crosses his arms, still looking over on the garden. "What do you want from me? You have my favor. Unlike them."

In truth, you have no great desires. You're fed, sheltered. You can buy things you want. All you have to do is please a single man, a thousand times easier than being in a brothel. He's a better lover than most men you'd encountered.

There's not much more you could ask for - which is good. Sukuna has a marked tendency to kill people who ask him for things.

But he's told you to, now. And you've never denied him.

"If I should be so daring, my lord," You say with a low hum, "When you no longer have any use of me, I would like to be dismissed instead of disposed of."

There's a pause. A stillness to him. Cold.

"When I no longer have use of you? When do you expect that to be?" HIs voice is strange in a way you haven't known before.

"I don't know. Of course I'll do all I can before then, but I've seen many women in my time at the brothel. We all lose our beauty and our charm eventually."

Sukuna turns to you. He does not come any closer. Four eyes stare at you, piercing.

"You think I keep you around because you're pretty? I couldn't care less what you look like. I keep you around because you're amusing, and you please me." He snorts, pushing himself off the tree.

You don't know what to say to that. "...I'm glad you enjoy my services?"

"You must be, if all you want is to retire peacefully." Sukuna begins walking away. "Make no mistake, woman. If you want to leave, do it. I don't need you."

You have to hurry to keep up with his long strides. But you catch a glimpse on his face, just a dusting -

"Hurry up."

With a smile, you trail him - all the way to his bedroom.

[ssentimentals]

Hi, are you only take requests from the prompt? I’m gonna leave my request and if you want to write it I’ll be really happy…🙏🏼

So the reader is also a singer but her brother is one of the f1 drivers can be Sainz or Leclerc, and she is dating (can be S.Coups, Joshua or Wonu) and they meet for the first time at the GP and get along really well .

Thanks 🤍🤍🤍

oh my god. my dear anonie. i have no hope left that you are still here, but in case you are - i am so, so sorry for catching up so late with this wonderful message. i was focused on prompts and my inbox was floored. but i got to it now and i am hoping that you'll like it!! sorry again :((

seungcheol + singer!reader (carlos sainz's sister)

seungcheol had many nerve-wracking moments in his life. his first ever performance, first tour abroad, performance on international festival, performance in front of a president for god's sake. but nothing really made him as nervous as he is now, entering the race venue. for all his bravado on being the fearless leader, seungcheol feels fear gripping his heart at the thought of meeting your brother. he tries to tell himself that it's all good - it's not like cheol has anything to hide and it's not like your brother is some kind of-

'is that carlos? oh my god, it is! carlos! carlos, carlos sainz!'

right. no biggie. seungcheol follows the direction of running and screaming girls and instantly clocks familiar red posters and dozens people with cameras around. he pauses and pulls his cap even lower, taking a deep breath. you can do this, he pep talks himself, slowly coming closer. so what that he's a famous f1 driver? so what that he looks like one punch from him will send me flying to the next wall? it's all good, all good. seungcheol notices you too when he comes as close as fans allow him to; you're standing not far from your brother, looking beautiful in red ferrari merch, smiling happily at the sight of people swooning over carlos. seungcheol lets himself enjoy these few moments of just looking at you without you noticing, just taking you in. he saw thousand photos of you from your concerts and red carpets, even more from your ads and magazines, but nothing beats just looking at you up close. your beauty never fails to amaze him; he still has no idea how he managed to make you his. sometimes it all does feel like fever induced dream from his part.

'sorry, excuse me,' seungcheol makes his way through the fangirls and photographers, waving a little when you notice him. your face lights up at the sight of him and his heart skips a beat - how did he get so lucky? waving him over, you giggle loudly when he hugs you tight. 'hello, gorgeous.'

'you made it!' you squeal, hugging him even tighter before pulling back. 'you weren't replying, i thought maybe something else came up.'

'sorry babe, just wanted to surprise you.' seungcheol is relieved that for once cameras are not pointing at you two; he confidently wraps his arm around your waist. 'everything's okay?'

you nod, smiling. 'i'm so excited! it's been a while since i came to the race.' your eyes drift to your brother's tall figure before looking back at your boyfriend. 'are you ready to meet my brother?'

seungcheol hopes his smile is convincing. 'of course i am. i'd love to.'

you see through his acting and squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. 'you have nothing to worry about, cheollie. he's amazing and he already knows so much about you!'

seungcheol gulps. he knows exactly what? does he know that he made you cry one month agoo during your fight? does he know that he gets weirdly possessive over you? does he know this or does he also know that seungcheol makes sure you have a bouquet waiting for you in every single hotel you stay whenever you're touring or that since you came into his life he never had eyes for anyone else? what exactly does carlos sainz know?

'come meet cheollie, carlos!' you wave at your brother, who walks over to your side, eyes trained on seungcheol.

seungcheol does not tremble. he does not shiver. he's a world class performer and he puts on his best smile and shakes carlos's hand with what he hopes is an adequate amount of strength. carlos's raised eyebrow tells him that he fucked up that one. 'nice to finally meet you,' carlos says, voice rather friendly even if his face remains impassive.

'likewise,' seungcheol says and tries to come up with something else, hating his own short answer: 'uh- happy to be here! on the race, i mean. good luck today, beat everyone.'

carlos tilts his head and chuckles. 'it's just a free practice today, race is on sunday.'

next to him, you snicker and seungcheol feels how tip of his ears burn in shame. god, what a way to go. right when he's scrambling for words to say, carlos saves him with a friendly pat on the shoulder: 'it's okay. you know nothing about racing, right?'

'i'll teach him everything!' you volunteer, snuggling closer to his side. seungcheol is thankful for your support and he's also happy that carlos doesn't point out anything about your pda. 'by sunday he'll be your main fan, carlito.'

'i already am!' seungcheol rushes to say. 'a fan, big fan, i mean.'

carlos is nice enough to let his awkwardness slide. his eyes linger on the way seungcheol's arm is wrapped around his sister's waist, but he says nothing. 'let's go to the paddock, you'll meet my team.'

seungcheol has a running suspicion that he fucked everything up, but the way you glow happily makes him think otherwise. he leans in, kissing your cheek and smiling at the way you lean more towards him; it feels so good to be able to do this without worrying. 'are you happy?' seungcheol asks, not being to look away from your shining face.

'i am,' you confirm, turning to him. 'you are here, my brother is here, it's a race weekend! everything is great.' you reach out, caressing his cheek. 'he likes you. i can tell, don't worry.'

'i am making a fool of myself in front of him,' seungcheol whispers, very close to whining. 'tell him that i am not like that usually.'

'i know how you are usually,' carlos suddenly says, turning to him with a wide smile. 'she tells me everything. always gushes about you.' carlos pauses, letting them catch up with him. he jokingly slaps seungcheol's shoulder. 'you're putting that bar very high, my friend.'

seungcheol rarely blushes but he is sure that his face is all red now. it feels undeserving to have carlos praise him like this, for some reason.

'he makes me happy!' you proclaim, making seungcheol's heart squeeze in his chest.

carlos's gaze softens and he reaches out, gently ruffling your hair. 'i know he does, bebe. it's good.' he then turns to seungcheol: 'you better keep it that way.'

seungcheol clears his throat. 'planning on it.'

carlos nods, satisfied. 'good. now let's go and turn you into tifosi.'

a/n: what a crossover this is :D hopefully you liked it, let me know! - nini

find more seventeen works HERE

find more formula 1 works HERE

[j-k-writes]

The Brozen Targaryen Deleted Scene - 1

Summary - (Y/N) has enough on his plate with an unwanted betrothal and estranged father forcing himself back into his life. He does not need a new and unwanted dragon thrown into the mix. However, as (Y/N) begins his training as a dragon rider he realizes that perhaps one problem can help fix some others.

Warnings - General HOTD warnings, targcest (cousins), political marriage

The winner of the poll!

(Y/N) did not return to the keep until morning. His uncle and what looked to be the entirety of the royal guard were waiting for him as he dragged his feet through the gates. One look at (Y/N)'s mud and blood-soaked clothing was all it took for his uncle’s face to flush in fury. 

“Come with me.” Viserys bit out. “Now.” 

(Y/N) followed his uncle, and the guards who had not left his side since he climbed the stairs, silently. Not that he could blame them, he’d managed to slip their eyesight the night before, and look what happened. His uncle walked him to his chambers, dismissing most of the guards as they entered. 

“Fetch a maester.” His uncle said to one of the guards as they left, before closing the door behind them. He rounded on (Y/N), fury clear on his face. “Sit.” 

The tiny petulant child that lived in (Y/N)’s brain wanted to continue to stand but the exhaustion seeped deep into his bones and forced him into a seat. (Y/N) sighed as his aching back met the cushioned chair, and he watched as Viserys paced the length of the room. 

“What were you thinking?” Viserys said, but before (Y/N) could form an answer he spoke again. “You are a Prince of the House Targaryen, the heir to Runestone! Sneaking out at night? You could’ve been taken, or worse killed!” 

“I wouldn’t have been killed, uncle.” (Y/N) said, indignant at the thought that he would be killed by some random attacker in Fleabottom. It was the wrong thing to say as his uncle seethed further. 

“No?” Viserys spat. “Have you seen yourself, (Y/N)? You are covered in dirt and blood. What am I supposed to tell your father when he returns? That I allowed his only son to escape my watch and injure himself as he whored around Fleabottom?” 

“I think he’d be thrilled at the thought actually.” (Y/N) said, “But I wasn’t whoring, I just wanted a break. I am not used to the city, uncle. I missed the fresh air.” 

His uncle deflated at his words, sighing to himself. “If you had just told me-” 

“You would’ve sent me to the woods with at least four guards. I wanted to go alone.” 

The doors burst open as (Y/N) finished his sentence, but it was not the maester who entered the room but Rhaneyra. She was panting as if she’d run to his room. Rhaenyra looked to her father first and then to (Y/N), and when they made eye contact her jaw dropped. 

“What have you done?” (Y/N) laughed at her words. She approached him, face flickering between disgust at his mud-covered clothes, and worry at the blood on his face. 

“Rhaenyra-” Viserys started but his heir waved him off, grabbing a cloth from the water bowl on (Y/N)’s desk. His uncle sighed at Rhaenyra’s actions, turning to (Y/N). “We have not finished with this conversation, and I will be doubling your guard.” 

(Y/N) sighed, watching as his uncle left the room letting the chamber doors closer with a slam behind him. Rhaenyra approached, beginning to wipe the grime off his face. Her movements were harsh with anger, and (Y/N) winced as the cold rag made contact with the cuts on his face. 

“Tell me what happened.” Rhaenyra said, her tone leaving no room for argument. 

“I snuck out of the keep.” 

“I am aware of that.” Rhaenyra said. “The whole keep is aware of that as a matter of fact. I want to know who injured you.” 

“No one injured me.” (Y/N) said, and Rhaenyra paused her washing of his face at the honesty in his tone. 

“What do you mean?” 

“A dragon claimed me.” 

“You claimed a dragon?” 

“No,” (Y/N) said, wincing internally at how ridiculous he must sound. “I did not claim it, it claimed me.” 

“A dragon is not an it.” Rhaenyra chastised, swatting him on the shoulder. “Which dragon?” 

(Y/N) had not thought that far. Truthfully he knew little of his father’s family history, Maester Pate always cuffed him when he adamantly refused to study the books. He knew nothing of the dragon that found him last night, except that it was more stubborn than himself if such a thing was possible. 

“I do not know.” (Y/N) admitted. “It was bronze, like my house's sigil, and huge. I felt like a babe as it towered over me.” 

“Bronze?” Rhaenyra froze, eyes widening. 

“Yes.” 

Rhaenyra’s face broke out into a grin. “That is Vermithor.” 

“The dragon missing from Dragonstone?” 

“Yes, our great-grandfather Jaehaerys was his rider once.” Rhaenyra seemed ecstatic at the news, but (Y/N) could not help the fury that flared within him. It could be no coincidence that the dragon that left Dragonstone upon his father’s arrival on the island would claim him. Rhaenyra seemed to notice his worsening mood and frowned. “You do not seem happy.” 

“A dragon is the last thing I want, Rhaenyra.” (Y/N) said. “I am not like you, I do not take pride in being a Targaryen.” 

Rhaenyra drew away from him at his words, placing the dirty cloth back in the bowl of water. “I will make sure the maester finds his way to you, cousin.”

Rhaenyra was angry with him, that much (Y/N) was sure of. 

Since the morning he’d returned bloody and bruised and with a new dragon in tow, she had not spoken to him outside of their council visits, and even then her words were short and clipped. Once (Y/N) would have been grateful for his betrothed to show such contempt for him, the hope of a broken betrothal would have raised his spirits to new heights. But after weeks of enjoying Rhaenyra’s friendship, he could not bring himself to feel anything other than bored. 

While he still had little desire for a wedding, let alone one his father had arranged for him, he did wish for his betrothal to Rhaenyra to end. He did not love the girl more than anyone loved a friend, but perhaps one day he would bring himself to. She was comely enough for (Y/N) to admit his attraction toward her, and she was pleasant enough company that he would not mind being tied to her for the rest of his life. 

He had always known his marriage would be political, and was grateful that his intended was someone who understood him as much as Rhaenyra did. But he still feared that the quickness of their betrothal would forever stain their marriage, they did not love each other and probably would not for some time. 

Still, he could not have his future wife not speaking to him before their marriage was even official. 

The Dragonkeepers had sought him out a few days ago, claiming that Vermithor was restless and they had tried everything. He tried to tell them that he had no wish to properly claim the dragon and that they should just let him return to Dragonstone. Alas, it did not work that way and if (Y/N) continued to ignore their bond he would just cause Vermithor and himself more harm than necessary. 

So he made the lengthy trip up to the Dragonpit, without Rhaenyra this time. He made the trip every day until Vermithor was calm enough to be saddled and the Dragonkeepers determined his mastery of the dragon well enough to fly. He’d nearly fainted the first time Vermithor took off, but soon enough discovered that this was the fresh air he’d been dreaming of since leaving Runestone. 

He tried to keep his distance from the dragon, telling himself he was doing this only because it seemed he had no choice, but as the weeks passed on he found himself looking forward to his daily lessons with Dragonkeepers. 

Rhaenyra had begun talking to him again when she learned of his lesson, most likely from his father, and he was so relieved to have his friend back that he didn’t bother holding a grudge against the girl.

Her first wish, demand more like, upon their reacquaintance was to go flying. (Y/N) had mused that they’d done that before but Rhaenyra just rolled her eyes and insisted. This time (Y/N) would no longer be a spectator on the ground as she had her fun, he would be joining her in the skies. 

He was nervous on their ride up to the Dragonpit. Vermithor had become considerably more docile than when he first arrived at the Dragonpit, but there were still days that (Y/N) feared for the safety of those unfortunate enough to bear the dragon’s scorn. 

He watched anxiously as Vermithor crawled out from the Dragonpit, tilting his head side to side in search of his rider. (Y/N) approached him, laughing quietly to himself as the dragon pushed his snout into (Y/N)’s chest. He whispered calming words in his ancestral tongue, informing the dragon that they had a guest and he must behave.

When Vermithor stilled (Y/N) held his hand out to Rhaenyra, much like she had done when introducing him to Syrax. She approached the dragon slowly, looking up at him in awe. 

(Y/N) remembered that this was her great-grandfather’s dragon; she'd probably grew up on stories of Vermithor as much as she had his rider. 

(Y/N) pressed her hand against Vermithor’s nose, whispering calming words to the dragon as he huffed. After what felt like an eternity of anxious waiting, Vermithor calmed, blinking slowly at his rider’s betrothed. He heard Rhaenyra laugh next to him and he turned to catch her eye. She was still looking up at his dragon in awe. 

“You’ve done very well with little training.” Rhaenyra said, rubbing her hands down Vermithor’s snout. 

“Perhaps I am more Targaryen than I wish to be.” (Y/N) smiled at his betrothed, and Rhaenyra just nodded her head, smiling at him.

[mythelixir]

Right now, who are you, what do you need to hear from your future self and your inner child? Pile - 1

Pile - 2

Pile - 3

Pile - 1

Knight of Wands - reversed

King of Swords - reversed

2 of cups - reversed

Ace of Swords

Aura colour – orange/purple

What’s your vibe?

Well, to be put simply, you are reckless. You’re someone who is driven by adrenaline, never allowing anything to stop you. To you, the world is a small place, and everything is simple. But all these are carefully crafted façades. You, in reality, are restless and fearful. You fear that the time given to you is too short and you might die tomorrow, you live in that fear. So you do everything now. YOLO right? So, you lack self-discipline in the excuse that it only cripples your adventure. But to a heavy contrast, you feel for the people you love, so deeply that you protect them with the life that you so fear losing. You are an idiotic fool that everyone loves but fears you aren’t in your right mind more than half of their time.

You are someone who is gifted with the power of intellect along with victory. Doesn’t mean you’re favoured that way, it's just that the hardships you face, you always find a way to get out of, with triumph at that. Hence, you give off confidence in your walk and talk. I just saw a lioness. While lions are signs of reign and power, they are also known for laziness. But lionesses? They are the symbol of elegance and royalty. While some things confuse you, you don’t get stuck in it for long. You understand the problem and solve it quickly, you’re very action oriented. So, when people see you, they see someone reliable, someone they know can handle shit on their own. In others' eyes, you are that bitch that they fear.

You give off major Aquarius/Sagittarius vibes.

Messages from your future self:

I know you’re tempted to just use others around you, and step over their efforts to get to your destination, but please, don’t do it. You’re only damaging yourself in the process. Telling yourself, “One last time” before doing it? No, you're going to do it again, trust me. It will be like an addiction, even when you know you should stop, you won’t. You can't. Trust me. I know being this Ice Princess is a tempting imagery right now but that ice that is meant to pierce others? It will only impale you. Power-hungry jackals, you hate them right? Then why are you seeking to become one? Write down your feelings instead, so when you read them back, you’ll understand why you’d stopped yourself. Love yourself a little. Show yourself some peace. You need it.

Message from your inner child:

So you fear touch because you were never hugged, lulled to sleep or comforted when you cried as a child? No open communication, only screaming matches? Always being said, “You’re younger, you don't know the world. Just do as I say”. Unrealistic expectations that you were never able to meet? Well, when you were younger you might’ve, but as you got older, shit just didn’t make any sense. You wanted to rebel all of a sudden, but even when you did, you were brushed off as “immature”?

But now, it’s time to change the narrative. Start small—acknowledge your pain and let yourself grieve the affection and understanding you missed. Surround yourself with people who make you feel safe and loved, and learn to set boundaries with those who don’t. Explore self-soothing practices like journaling, meditation, or holding a soft object when you feel overwhelmed. Teach yourself that touch can feel safe again—start with something gentle, like hugging a pet, or even placing a hand over your heart to remind yourself you’re here. Speak kindly to yourself; replace harsh inner voices with affirmations like, “I am enough,” or “I deserve love.” Engage in therapy or support groups to unlearn the lies you were told and create space for your true self to grow. Healing begins when you nurture the love and care within you that was always waiting to be found.

Pile - 2

The Empress – reversed

Queen of Cups – reversed

The Hierophant

2 of wands

Aura colour – white/red

What’s your vibe?

You are controlling and manipulative, but that stems from lack of self-worth and constantly neglecting your needs. You simply cannot control yourself so you rectify that problem by controlling the people around you, that can either drive them away or to you. You might be the sole earner/breadwinner of your family, this power trip might be the reason for your behaviour. The cards also strongly suggest the presence of a woman/ feminine energy had negatively impacted previously in your life, which now has shaped you to be sceptical to women, this also might result to you being called “pick-me”. But no, you are just comfortable around men. This kind of treatment also makes you incredibly bonded with nature and also, food. You love treating the people you love with food and also, when you are depressed, you need rain/ rain sounds + lots of tasty food.

You also suffer from emotional imbalance/ low EQ. Insecurity, emotional insecurity and self-neglect are themes that you see yourself falling into. This leads to lack of empathy, distrust and animosity towards people that are nice just for the hell of it. You either loathe it because you think they’re being fake or you just hate them for being something you cannot. You also think emotional detachment is the way to go. You give off tsundere vibes.

Major Taurus/ all water sign vibes.

Messages from your future self:

You lack a belief system and you know that ruins you. The nights when you feel no one is there for you, no one can hear your wailing cries, you fail to get back up because of it. Because you have nothing to believe in. That breaks you from the inside. If people fail you and you hate the idea of following a religion, then imagine you future, where you see yourself. Where you succeed, where you are loved by everyone and work towards achieving that, when you do that, you have something to live for. A silver lining in the darkest of clouds. And, there is nothing wrong with being conventional/traditional. People stick with olden ways because they’re proven to work. So you do you!

I kept hearing “Too sad to cry” by Sasha Sloan when I was writing this, give it a listen but keep a box of tissues with you.

Message from your inner child:

I know you probably fear large bodies of water—it’s okay. Something must have happened back then, something that made the water feel less like a friend and more like a threat. You’ve learned to cope, though. You keep a support system nearby, like friends or a lifeguard, or rely on floaties to keep you afloat. But that fear also made you fall in love with the warmth of summer and spring, where the sun feels like a hug and you don’t have to face the uncertainty of deep waters.

You’ve always been the one who plans, the one who maps out their path because people around you (your parents/uncles/aunts) seemed to have glided through life, never planning anything and you’ve seen things go wrong because of it. And that because of that, your anxiety made you an avid planner.

But guess what? That’s your strength. You hold the world in your palm, ready to shape it your way, one thoughtful step at a time. I see you. I’m proud of you. Keep going.

Pile - 3

Ten of wands – reversed

King of Cups – reversed

9 of wands

3 of pentacles – reversed

Aura colour – gold/black/blue

What’s your vibe?

You’re the people that appear in those movies with truck load of books in their hands and fall over, stumbling out of balance. You take on too much, be it work, responsibility. You’re nothing short of a pressure cooker now, ready to burst any second. I got this image from this movie called “The 3 idiots” where they heads swell up like a balloon and burst due to an overload of information. It is supposed to be funny, until its not.

I feel like now, you’re trying to let go of certain things, delegating some tasks, freeing yourself. You’re setting clear boundaries, prioritising tasks and overall, gaining a better understanding of your situation as a whole. Teamwork is a part of your stress and you are starting to realise that/ you’ve already recognised that as your problem.

The cards also point to a lack of maturity and the need to withdraw from emotional situations rather than facing them head on. You may be emotionally detached,  avoiding expressing your feelings openly and also create walls when going into a relationship. You may also have a sharp tongue or make decisions hastily/in the heat of the moment. You might have unhealthy coping mechanisms, when I see you I see a person with dark cirles/ eye bags/ bitten nails.

Major water/fire sign vibes.

Messages from your future self:

You are so fucking strong and resilient. Believe in that. You are someone who doesn’t ever give up because you see other people doing shit and think “Well, bitch, I can too”. That is you. But also please, proceed with caution. Stop once in a while to take a breather, because even the strongest I people need rest to succeed in battle. You are someone who has gone through and will go through so much shit but the will to live, never once faded. You have this strength in you to just, go on.

I don’t know why but when I saw this I got remembered of this one meme from arcane, where this dude’s shirt says “I survived act III, but at what cost”.

I heard “Sign of the Times” from Harry Styles just now. Wow. Well, that might be a good or a bad thing, only you will know.

Message from your inner child:

I see your fear of masculine energy, and I understand—it might stem from times when that energy felt overwhelming, controlling, or unsafe. You’ve built walls to protect yourself, and that’s okay; they were necessary once. But now, those walls can come down, slowly and on your terms. Not all masculine energy is harmful—some of it is steady, nurturing, and protective. Let yourself explore it gently, whether in others or within yourself. As for stagnation, it’s not a failure; it’s a pause, a moment to reflect and gather strength. You’re not stuck—you’re resting, preparing to move forward when you’re ready. Give yourself permission to heal, to trust, and to grow at your own pace. There’s no rush, no timeline you must follow. I see your strength, even when you don’t. I’m here, rooting for you, every step of the way. You’re safe now.

[voxofthevoid]

Yo, it's Demon/Hunter Horror Wednesday #16—first WIP Wednesday of the year, technically, since the last week ended up being excerpt games.

I still don't have any straight-up porn to post (only two such scenes left in the whole fic, and the next two chapters should cover those), but I did write two interlinked scenes featuring Yuuji, Gojou, and Tōji that should be entertaining on their own—and maybe tease some of the missing context 👀

“So he did come,” Satoru murmurs. “We have a guest, Yuuji.”

Yuuji drags his mind to the present—and the man lounging on Satoru’s front steps. “Tōji-san?”

A lazy wave. “Yo. Playing favorites, Six Eyes?”

“H-huh?”

“Not you, kid.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Satoru says pleasantly. “I’m perfectly willing to involve Megumi. Are you?”

Tōji continues to stare up at them, his eyes narrow slits despite the angle. When Yuuji looks at Satoru, he finds a bland smile that gives nothing away.

“Involve Fushiguro in what?” Yuuji asks. “Guys?”

“Training.” Satoru’s the one who replies, and it’s the same tone as before but…different somehow. “Tōji here would make a better teacher for you than for Megumi, but I’m far more versatile. There’s a lot I could teach your cute little son—isn’t that right, Papa-san?”

“Don’t push it, you little shit.”

Satoru’s grin widens unsettlingly. “Is that a no?”

“You know damn well you’re not touching that brat for three more years. Or did you get fucked so hard you forgot to count?”

Heat rushes to Yuuji’s face, but Satoru only laughs.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he says.

“What the hell is going on?” Yuuji grits out.

Two pairs of unfairly intense eyes snap to him. Yuuji holds Tōji’s gaze and ignores Satoru’s. Both these men are intimidating, but Yuuji’s been surviving Sukuna and his freakshow for fucking months.

“Heh.” Tōji stands up—and up and up, unfolding his entire immense bulk. He finishes it off with a leisurely stretch of his arms above his head; the fabric around his biceps cries for help. “At least you’ll be more fun than all this grunt work. Don’t disappoint me too much, pinkie.”

“Careful,” Satoru chimes in. His hand comes to rest on Yuuji’s shoulder, the touch light but the weight heavy. “You’re not allowed to break Yuuji.”

“How stupid do you think I am?”

“Stupid?” Satoru tilts his head, the movement oddly liquid. “Not at all. You do, however, have a track record of trying to kill hapless teenagers.”

Tōji snorts. “Hapless my ass. You and your dead boyfriend were monsters.”

Satoru’s hand flexes on Yuuji’s shoulder, tightening briefly before relaxing with a deliberation that makes Yuuji’s own knuckles ache. “Takes one to know one.”

“Sure does.” Tōji’s eyes sweep back to Yuuji. “Let’s see where you fall on the spectrum. Training wheels are off, kiddo. You’re playing with the big boys now.”

“Uh…” Yuuji looks between the two of them; Satoru’s smile tells him as much as Tōji’s sneer does—absolutely nothing. “I have no idea what you two are talking about.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll do fine. Tōji’s here to train your body. I’ll take over later to hone your spiritual senses. Ideally, I’d do both, but I have a demon to corral—and you two get along well enough. Still, don’t let him bully you, Yuuji.”

“You’re one to talk,” Tōji drawls. “The kid looks like he’d crawl out of his skin to get away from you.”

Yuuji freezes.

At his side, Satoru does too. Then the hand on Yuuji’s shoulder falls away.

Yuuji doesn’t miss it; he doesn’t.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Satoru says blandly, stepping back and out of Yuuji’s peripheral vision. “Yuuji has a key. I’ll be back before nightfall.”

There’s a soft, strange noise—displaced air, with an electric crackle. Yuuji’s heard it exactly once before, in that deserted road in front of Sukuna’s church a second before Satoru showed him it wasn’t so deserted after all.

When he turns around, Satoru’s gone.

“Idiot,” Tōji scoffs behind him. “Come on, pinkie. Let’s beat you into shape.”

-

The spar with Tōji ends very predictably.

There was a moment there at the start when Yuuji thought he might be able to put up a better fight. Sukuna is a lot more formidable than the high school bullies and yakuza wannabes who had been the extent of Yuuji’s fighting experience the last time he’d tangled with Tōji, and Yuuji’s never once won against Sukuna either, but he’s learned a lot.

He’s changed, in ways he can sometimes feel like stains in his soul.

But one second was all it took for Yuuji to realize just how much Tōji had been holding back the first and no-longer-only time they’d done this, and then he was getting real closely acquainted with the bark of a tree.

That first and no-longer-only fight feels like a joke now. It must have felt like one to Tōji. And it’s not like Yuuji had walked away from that either, but he’d felt all warm about Tōji’s appraisal afterward, and there’d been a fun thrill to the way Fushiguro had looked at him, his expression grudgingly impressed despite how he’d warned Yuuji away from his dad’s antics.

What just happened feels more like utter slaughter. Yuuji’s bones are unbroken and there are no holes in his body, but even the worst Sukuna had done to him hadn’t been so one-sided.

A pair of feet enter his peripheral vision.

Tōji’s dark eyes peer down at him. His expression is…no different than what he wears when he greets Yuuji at the door. Boredom, mostly, but with an edge to it that warrants straightened spines and ready hands.

He says, “You fight differently.”

Yuuji tries to ask a question, but all that comes out is a weak croak.

Tōji lets out an amused huff and raises a hand. It’s clutching a bottle of water. When did he—

“Ack—” Yuuji gasps and sputters as the water is poured onto his hot, swollen face, and some of it goes inside, soothing his throat almost by accident. It’s a miracle none of it ends up in his windpipe. “Tōji-san! Cut it out!”

“Look at that, you’re alive,” Tōji drawls, but the stream of water cuts off. “Just watering you. Hydration is important.”

Yuuji glares up at him. “I’m not a plant.”

“You’re about as useless as one right now.” Tōji crouches down, and Yuuji tries to brace himself, an instinct violently obtained in the last handful of minutes, but those hands don’t reach for him with the intent to hurt, just dangle between Tōji’s spread legs while he surveys Yuuji with unreadable eyes. “Eh, I guess you’ll do.”

“What did you mean?” Yuuji asks, blinking hard to make his eyes stop stinging from the water assault. The cuts all over his face and neck burn, but that’s easy enough to ignore. The rest of his body feels like one big bruise. “How am I fighting differently?”

“You’ve learned what real pain feels like.” Tōji’s voice is low, his eyes unblinking. “And it doesn’t bother you much. It shows. It always does.”

“…Oh.”

“Don’t let it get to your head. You’ve still got a ways to go.” Tōji cracks his neck, veins bulging along the thick column of it. “At least training you won’t be a total waste.”

Yuuji bites his lip, reminded of something he’d thought of in scattered bursts in the couple of minutes between Satoru leaving and Tōji laying into him. “Tōji-san, is it really alright to leave Fushiguro out of this?”

“Out of what? This ain’t some super cool club, pinkie. You’re here to get beaten up till you’re a little less likely to shit yourself and die if one of those fuckers that go bump in the night looks at you wrong. What, you want company in your misery?”

“No, that’s not—” Yuuji takes a deep breath, trying to figure out what he does want to say. “It’s nothing like that. I’m just worried. Sukuna knows him, he’s—sorry, it’s my fault, I should’ve—”

“Can it.” Tōji pulls a face, blowing out an explosive breath. “Kids these days. You didn’t do shit. This is just the ugly, festering face of reality. Most people just can’t see it. Sometimes, they’re lucky for it. Sometimes, they’re just dumb cattle. That’s the way it is.”

Yuuji can’t help thinking of what Satoru said yesterday about monsters and people—about food and feasting.

“Won’t he be safer,” he asks quietly, “if he can protect himself better?”

Tōji blinks, a languid motion that leaves his eyes heavy-lidded. “Is that what you think he’s doing with you?”

“H-huh?”

“Gojou,” Tōji clarifies, except it doesn’t explain anything at all.

“I don’t—”

“Make no mistake, kid—this is a farce. I don’t know why he’s bothering. I can guess, but I don’t really give a fuck. Just take what you’re given and hope you’ll live long enough to use it. It won’t be here. It won’t even be this year. I know too well what it takes to make a hunter worth the air they waste.” The base of the plastic bottle, still heavy with water, is brought to rest against Yuuji’s stomach. It taps idly, once. Then it presses unerringly into a bruise, and Yuuji’s left breathing slow and soft past the burst of pain. “At least you’ve got a good body. You even know how to use it. It’s still not enough. Megumi? He’d need to eat the thing in the church to even taste his own damn power. Now call that a fucking birthright.”

Yuuji swallows, tasting blood, and that’s just the cut inside his mouth from when a punch shoved his flesh against his own canine, but the undertone of rot is something else, isn’t it?

“Tōji-san…”

“You’re just brats who’d be useless in this fight.” Tōji rises to his feet in one fluid motion, turning away from Yuuji. “So stay brats.”

Yuuji breathlessly watches him take a few steps toward the open back door of Gojou’s house.

Then— “Satoru said you tried to kill him.”

Tōji pauses, doesn’t look back. “Sure did.”

And Yuuji’s not surprised, not really. He heard what these two said. But it was a lot, and he still doesn’t know what to feel about hapless teenagers and dead boyfriends and monsters.

He can still see the shape of a story; it’s not a good one.

“Was he my age then?”

“Who knows.”

“He was still young.”

“He was a brat too, if that’s what you’re getting at. Should’ve been an easy kill. Would’ve saved us all some trouble if I’d finished the damn job.” Tōji sticks a finger in his ear, giving it a violent shake. “Whatever. This pays better.”

[backseatsoldier]

No Mercy - Prolog

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC (Bex)

CW: mental & emotional abuse committed by family members; toxic family members; military inaccuracies (though I am asking those I know who have been in the military about their experiences-)

Author's Note: Welcome to the story of my only military OC! If you'd like to be on the tag list, drop a comment and I'll get one started for the first chapter <3

18 years old/Two Days After Graduation...

"You're such a selfish bitch, Becca."

"Go suck Darian's cock so I don't have to listen to you whine, Hannah," Bex sighs as she zips up her suitcase.

The tension in the air thickens with Bex's comment, but she pays no mind to it. Instead she simply lifts her suitcase from her the bed and turns to face her twin. Hannah's face is twisted in anger and offense.

"I would never-"

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that. I'm sure you won't have problems with pathological lying later in life, sis," Bex tells her flatly. "Now move so I can leave. My ride will be here soon."

"You're really doing this? You're really abandoning us all for... for what? To play soldier?" Hannah's face twists into an expression of hurt.

But Bex sees right through it, as she always has.

"I'm leaving to start my own life. Move," she says more firmly this time.

Hannah's expression goes cold, but she steps to the side of the doorway. As Bex passes her, she grabs Bex's arm to stop her.

"Don't expect Mom and Daddy to welcome you back with open arms when you fail, Rebecca," Hannah hisses in her twin's ear. Then her grip on Bex's arm is gone. "And neither will I."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Bex returns with a bright smile then makes her way out of the room, head held high, prepared for a new life.

First Month of Basic...

Basic training is hell, as expected. It's nothing Bex will allow to drag her down, though.

"What's your plans after basic?" Private Burran asks from her bunk, sweet but exhausted smile on her face as she looks around at the other women in the room.

"Die in a world over," someone scoffs to Bex's left and Private Burran frowns in response.

"Don't you have like... different military jobs you'd like to pursue? I, for example, am getting into Microwave Communications!" Private Burran announces proudly.

"Ah, so you're a tech nerd," Private Charles chuckles as she leans against her and Private Burran's bunk with her arms crossed.

Their conversation continues but Bex tunes them out. She's not here to make friends; she's here to learn to do her damn job.

"What about you, Private Morgan?"

Bex sits up to look at the others. They each look at her expectantly and Bex sighs.

"Active duty, wherever I fit best. Would prefer to do something undercover, honestly," she admits.

There's a ripple of whispers through the other women and Bex raises and eyebrow at them.

"Don't you like... come from some rich, old money family?" Private Irens asks hesitantly, toying with the edge of her jacket sleeve.

"Why does that matter?" Bex asks, tone defensive as she sits up on her elbows.

"We're all on the same page. You'll have an advantage with getting through to anything you want because of your connections," Private Charles clarifies and shifts her weight to stand up straight.

"If you must know," Bex addresses them all with a stunning smile and everyone's shoulders stiffen. "I cut off all of my family," Bex hisses as her smile fades to a scowl. "Fuck off, all of you," she grumbles as she pushes out of her bunk and storms out of the barracks.

26 Years Old/Five Months ago...

In a small, noisy cafe in who-knows-where, two people sit together at a table. The woman has a laptop bag at her feet, strap wrapped around her ankle. The man stares out the open window next to them, cigar in hand.

"Top of her squad in basic training," the woman praises.

"What does she specialize in?" the man asks while puffing on a cigar.

"You asked for an undercover operative, Price," she points out flatly.

"Was she top of her platoon, though? I need the best, Laswell," Price counters.

"Second best."

"Why not bring me the number one then?" Price takes a drag from his cigar. Laswell waits for him to exhale before responding.

"Died on a recent mission. So, technically, she is number one."

Laswell slides a manila folder onto the table and holds eye contact with Price as he takes another puff. With a sigh, cigar smoke swirling in the air between them, he reaches for the folder and opens it.

"Sergeant First Class Rebecca Morgan, hm? The hell kind of callsign is 'BSS'?" he mumbles as he scans the first paper inside the folder.

"You'll have to ask her yourself, sir," Laswell says with a smirk. "She's waiting for you on base."

No Mercy Masterlist | CoD Masterlist

[theredconqueror]

He looks at Lucanis looking at him. It is a small thing, this approval of the lesson he's been taught, like a family heirloom passed down, but it does mean something to him that the assassin sees wisdom in it. He knows not everyone would. There are those who forsake their fathers and mothers, who turn away from those who gave them life. But then, not all of them had a father as perfect as his. They speak of lighter things, of money and matrimony, and an airy laugh slips through his lungs as his hand graces over where his heart would be momentarily, like a pledge. "Alas, I am but a humble mage. I have nothing but myself to give." It's a lie in every way, reckless in words in ways he usually isn't; labyrinthian omissions that held technically the truth. He has almost as much gold as he has glistening pride. "What about you? How many life-debts would be enough payment?" He teases, as if matrimony could clear such a thing. For a man so strict to the letter, Saramus doesn't think anything but the job done would serve. No absolution, no forgiveness; only blood. He'd once wondered if his father would have grieved the same way for him, but he'd earned his answer in crimson through too eager self-handled blade. It had been a moment that was proof of love. It had sealed them together forevermore and made that lesson he'd just recounted last a lifetime. Unbreakable. He is... sorry, that Lucanis doesn't have that with his grandmother. It's cold comfort to tell him perhaps that's how it is; the bond is fragmented, separated by a lifetime. His grandfather... reminds him of the grand matriarch, in some ways. It reminds him, too, that his father had poisoned him. He remembers the difficult year of grieving when his father's mother had died, the choked, quiet sobs behind closed doors, but he remembers the real tears when his father had first learned of it. He remembers how cruel his grandfather had been to his father, in that period especially. He remembers the mornings, daily, of giving his grandfather his favourite coffee, as bitter as any mortal could ever take it and how his father would always smile at him even though he knew his father always desired to steal as much time with him for himself. He remembers the guilty relief when his grandfather passed, how his father never had any reason to do anything but smile now. He remembers... "She sounds like my grandfather," he echoes, but leaves it that, and leaving the ghosts to their grave. He inspects the dagger that has caught Lucanis' eye. Oh, it is a beautiful thing. He thinks if he had such a thing everyone mistake for a dragon, and he's already battling enough accusations as it is. "Reading romance novels isn't very practical," he reminds the other with a light smile. When evidently the other doesn't care to try to even take advice from them. What use is such a thing? "And she's not here to stop you, is she?" But maybe Lucanis is stronger to him. When his father died... he did impractical things that would have been forbidden. Allowed himself a little bit of joy. The only one he's ever had.

Arcere, he thinks of the Tevene phrase. To close up, defend, or contain. A glance toward Rook's figure, the careful slope of his shoulders and politely constructed demeanour, and it's easy to see why people step-aside as if he were a boulder in the middle of the street. Immovable; he walks in straight, unbroken lines. Assured of each step, familiar with the world and his place within its grand, unknowable designs. How much does the mage keep close to his chest? Perhaps it could fill an ark. Perhaps it could sink the very thing that might've outlasted a flood if the secrets weren't so heavy and countless.

[ We only see. What we are. Arbiter. A father granted his syllables. A father did not have his intentions. ]

The destiny of progeny is to succeed their parents. In comparison, the destiny of tools is to serve their betters. Lucanis knows well his place, and continues the course as dictated by a dead woman's last wish.

"Your father spoke wisely." 'neath the market lights, he studies Valrys with a curious tilt of the head. Wonders at which features are inherited from said father. Eyes? Mouth? Or is it the wit that his cousin seems so enamored by? "Illario would need more than the return of kin as dowry. Add in a few goats and a sum of gold that would make Antiva's king jealous, and you might be considered as such." At the weapon's stall he inspects whetstones. Catarina always carried them in her pockets and taught them to do the same while teaching them how to swim. Swim or drown. Be useful or be dead: always the same lessons. "My grandmother might've grieved, but only because it meant her efforts were wasted." From across the street, Renzo carried a satchel of goods to be delivered — and Lucanis shifts closer to the shadows, wishing to go unnoticed. Out of curiosity, he inspects the daggers on display; something in his expression softening at the glimpse of one peculiar one with a handle shaped to mimic a draconic profile. "She was a very pragmatic woman. The only way she would've cried is if she poured water down her cheeks," he murmurs, sounding almost bitter. Almost wistful. "A wyvern tooth dagger would be an impractical weapon in her eyes, too." And he's nothing if not practical, forged to suit her preference.

[bunnyboy-juice]

spent the first hour and change at work deleting some old files and am having a grand ol time laughing at myself for not realizing i was a lesbian sooner

[lesbiansanemi]

I am so fucking sick of living with my roommate and his fuck ass boyfriend. Also watching my roommate burn every single one of his (already rather minimal, I might add) bridges for this guy is also kind of painful but also his relationship with me is one of said bridges so I'm almost past the point of even feeling bad for him lmao

[ohmylcve]

He had questions, many of them. How could he not? Inside Verona's mind, she was sure he would have so many, but she wasn't so sure if he would actually ask. If he would be willing to know the raw truth of Verona's past. The whole pressure of convincing him was getting on her nerves, as if it were an obligation rather than a simple story she could choose not to tell. Of course, she had the choice, but choosing not to tell meant losing him, and that isn’t something she’s willing to do. Verona has never told this story to anyone. She’s had multiple lovers before, who left once they discovered her marriage. She also had ones who knew about her marriage—but those usually came for her flesh, not for her soul. Not a single person knew the entire story, because truth be told: no one mattered this much to her.

Though she was willing to speak, to go on and on about how she’s stuck in a situation she’s not willing to get out of, she hates that she’s compelled to do so. Verona would rather be in a bed, late at night, after a few glasses of white wine, spilling words like she accidentally spills her drink, when she’s not controlling herself. In this very moment, she wishes time travel were possible, just so she could go back and be able to tell this story the way he deserves to hear it.

Ali’s whole body betrays him: the clenched jaw, the closed fists... it’s almost as if he’s about to start a fight, and she knows that this very moment is one for him. He’s fighting himself, he’s fighting against her, but also... he’s fighting with her. And she’s battling to understand what it is that truly hurts him: is it the lie itself? No... once she realized that the words are mere objects to hide the true pain inside. So what was that pain? Scavenging through every word, through every silence, Verona finds herself eager to discover what it is that he’s hiding behind his thick and yet trembling walls.

She does so until he reveals his secret—one he might not have revealed if it wasn’t for this huge misunderstanding between them, just like the story she would’ve never told. After all, this was entirely about vulnerability. Hers, his. About how neither of them could deal with that. But more than that... it was about Ali. About how he never opened up this way to someone; not only did she feel that while in his sheets, but she acknowledges the truth of it by his mere state. "Oh, for fuck’s sake!" The entire control she held until now felt like it was shattered by his fear. She was still defeated, still felt like she needed to convince him, but she was tired. Tired of listening to him blabber on about what he thought, rather than hearing her say it. "If you're too much of a coward to deal with how much we feel, you might as well leave," she fires, guessing her entire face is as red as her hair. "I could’ve lied about so many things. So many! I could’ve faked how I felt, but I don’t take you for a fool. I know you can read people more than I can understand, so I know you’ve read me and you felt the truth in every touch. Mine or yours. You felt it, and if you can't admit that to yourself, then go. Because if you’re here to throw your truths at me, I am not interested in this conversation at all." With a deep breath, she takes a sip of her drink, allowing the anger and irritation to fill her body. What is that pain of hers, then? Clear as day, it popped into her head: he’s knowing me before I can show up to him, just like Viego did.

As the trigger was identified, Verona finishes her glass of wine, forgetting her manners and wiping her mouth with her sleeve. "I could've lied about my name. Have you ever thought about that?" she begins, her gaze meeting his, silently challenging him to keep up. "I’ve had my fair share of affairs, but you were the only one who got my full name right. Verona Quinn." Lowell, she knows. But that's not her name, not the one she claims, not the one she's known for. "My maiden name is my full name." With a slow breath, she looks away, tears rising as she reminds herself that she is the one who built her empire. Not Viego. Her.

"I have no idea how you felt. Not a single glimpse of comprehension," she begins, calmer than before, as if the storm she threw was nothing more than necessary to bring her back to herself. "And I never will. Nothing I can say will change the fact that I’ve hurt you a lot, I’m well aware of it." Confidence blending with her words, as if both were merely colors she was merging to create a new one. "But I do have my reasons for acting the way I did. Nothing will justify the pain you're feeling, so if you're looking for that, again, you might as well just leave." Still able to hold his gaze, she continued. "I am Verona Quinn, for what it matters. I live as Verona Quinn, I EXIST as Verona Quinn." Emphasizing existence, she knows the core of what she's about to say lies there. "I never lied to you because I was dragging you into my mess. For me, it was never a lie, because the life I live is already one." Admitting it to herself out loud hurts more than she expects, and afraid she might stop in the middle of it, she continues, faster than before, but with as much intention. "Forget social conventions for a while, and think of our last walk through the streets of Venice, Ali. I can imagine how confusing that might be for you, that we've felt that much and yet I am married. I can assure you, in this marriage, there's no love. Nothing like we have, not even close." Her gaze turned into a searching one, as if she was trying to find the small piece that held both of them together inside of him. Her hands, on top of his tightened ones, slowly moved to open them, to grab his hands while she kept talking. "I gave you my all. I never gave you lies, no, not in my perspective. What I did was open up my chest, to grab my heart, and put it inside your hands. These very ones." She says it softer, a childish smile quickly making its appearance and then leaving as she recalls the information that once left his lips: I've killed for less than what you did to me. Then, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze, she adds, feeling her throat close in anxiety for his answer to what she's about to ask. "Will you crush it, or will you keep it?"

Ali’s thoughts swirled in a tempest of contradiction. He wasn’t sure which stung more—the raw truth of Verona’s words or the realization that he had come here, into her world, unarmed with anything but his own vulnerabilities. Vulnerabilities he despised. Vulnerabilities that, for the first time in years, he couldn’t hide from himself. Her gaze, unwavering and penetrating, stripped him bare in ways no interrogation or battlefield had ever managed. It was excruciating. It was intoxicating. For so long, Ali had conditioned himself to avoid moments like these. To bypass the chaos of human emotion and live within the neat, controlled lines of precision and purpose. Chaos belonged out there—on the job, in the face of danger, where his body and mind could cut through it like a scalpel. Not here. Not in the eyes of someone who made him feel exposed, seen, and, worst of all, uncertain. He hated uncertainty. And yet, as Verona questioned him—her voice steady but her breathing betraying her—he didn’t feel in control anymore. His carefully constructed walls, reinforced by years of discipline and detachment, buckled under the weight of her honesty. The vulnerability in her words was almost unbearable. He wasn’t sure if it was anger, regret, or something far messier that churned in his chest, but it clawed at him like a caged animal. What did he want to know? Did he even know? Her question hung in the air like smoke, suffocating him as much as it compelled him to answer. He clenched his jaw, fighting the instinct to retreat, to end the conversation with an abrupt exit and return to the comfort of isolation. But he stayed. For reasons he didn’t fully understand, he stayed.

“Start with why,” he said, his voice steady but lacking its usual coldness. It almost felt foreign to hear it. His own words sounded sharper than he intended, but Ali didn’t soften them. He couldn’t. Not when his mind was flooded with fragments of memories—brief moments of trust, of closeness, that now felt tainted by betrayal and lies. Not when he wasn’t sure if he wanted to forgive her or punish her for the way she made him feel. For the way she still made him feel. He hated the way his heart raced as she took a step closer. Hated the way he noticed every detail—the slight quiver in her lips, the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes searched his, not for forgiveness but for understanding. Hated how much he wanted to give it to her, even when he wasn’t sure she deserved it. The truth, he realized, was that he wasn’t here for closure. He wasn’t here for answers. He was here because, against all reason, he couldn’t stay away. And that terrified him more than anything. Ali’s hands tightened into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he struggled to steady himself. The air between them felt thick, charged with all the words left unsaid, all the truths she had buried and he had clawed at only to uncover too late. He stared at her now, his mind a battlefield of emotions he couldn’t afford to indulge: anger, betrayal, longing. Why had she lied? Why had she pulled him into her orbit, knowing all along she had another life—a life she’d hidden while weaving herself so deeply into his? Ali’s voice, when it came, was low and deliberate. Every word felt like a sharp-edged weapon, carefully aimed but impossible to dull.

“Do you have any idea what it felt like,” he began, his tone measured but barely masking the storm beneath, “to find out the way I did? To look into the life you kept hidden and realize I wasn’t just a part of it—I was your secret?” His gaze was fixed on hers, unrelenting. Her eyes, so often a mystery, were now a mirror, reflecting the weight of his words back at him. But Ali couldn’t stop. He’d held this inside for too long, and the dam was cracking. “You say you weren’t playing with me,” he continued, his voice hardening, “but what else would you call it? You didn’t just lie, Verona. You let me believe there was nothing else. No one else. And I—” He cut himself off, the words catching in his throat. He didn’t want to admit what he had given her, what he had felt for her, not when it still ached like an open wound. His breath hitched as he forced himself to calm down, to rein in the chaos she had unleashed inside him. Ali prided himself on control, on precision. But she had dismantled that so easily, with her truths and half-truths, with the world she’d built for herself while leaving him in the dark. “I’ve killed for less than what you did to me,” he said softly, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Do you know that?” The cat was official out of the bag, and Ali didn't even realize he just let out a big secret. That's how crazy he was about her. That's how mad she made him. “And still,” he said, softer now, the anger bleeding into something rawer, something vulnerable, “I came here. I needed to hear it from you. Why you lied. Why you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth.” He paused, his gaze locking onto hers again, searching for something—remorse, regret, an answer. Anything to explain why she had taken what he’d offered her and broken it so completely. “Did any of it mean anything to you? Or was I just the escape you needed until you went back to your real life?”

[sschmendrick]

I kinda miss hanging out with old people. All my friends used to be old people.

But the older I grow, and the more I'm expected to behave well like a normal adult, the harder I find it to keep those links. I'm lost between trying to stick to a script I don't know the words of to have a proper normal and interesting relationship for them, and allowing myself to screw up a little, be boring, be interested in stuff they aren't, having opinions they don't agree with (for silly stuff like music, though yk me), not be cool. Cause the latter stresses me out. Cause I see no reason for people to want to be friends with me if not that.

[minarcana]

[supergraphicultramoderngirl]

suddenly i am joey tribbiani??????????