#the mood was ruined but at least just the mood??

[bloodybreakupscene]

-> 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓.

joaquin torres x reader

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ [desc.] :: a short drabble between you and joaquin, from when you first met, to how it's going.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ [a/n] :: HEEEYYYY it's me after... checks clock... two years?? finally got into writing again soooo expect marvel fics... who's excited for the new daredevil show... and that new spidey show is good too ALSO MARVEL RIVALS–

you slave away on your computer, dragging and dropping files, typing them up, doing whatever with them! god, you didn't think a government job would have you doing so much boring tedious work. you scroll and scroll onwards and it's a wonder your finger hasn't fallen off yet. ‘i guess i can't see president ross doing any of this stuff.’ you comment to yourself.

joaquin looks at you, well, it lingers– okay he's staring. he always does, he can't help it! ever since you started working here he can't stop. he walks by your office everyday since it's on his way to where he usually works. he's talked to you a couple times, did the thing where you nod to each other to acknowledge the other's presence. you even say good morning! that means you guys are like.. close right? at least work friends.

“so.. i went on a mission, couple days ago. pretty good, beat up a couple guys.” he blurts out, body leaning on your doorway, causing you to looking away from your own computer.

“oh really?”

“yeah.” he brags, “you should've been there, even sam was impressed.”

“i would've liked to, during work i don't look anywhere other than this damn computer,” you laugh.”

“y'know maybe, maybe we could–”

“joaquin, need you out front.” sam wilson calls from his comms, the voice of captain america sounding through the speakers.

“i think he needs you.” you smile at him, he smiles back but he's disappointed again, he wanted to ask you out! for coffee or whatever government coworkers do!

joaquin complains to sam about this later, talking about how he ruined his chances and how he needs to “hop off and let him soar” whatever the hell that meant, sam would've gotten on his case if he didn't scurry away as soon as they arrived back at base. running straight towards your working grounds.

he chills out before walking in the room. checking his hair, face, etc, etc. as he's fixing his uniform, you tap on his shoulder, eliciting a jolt from him.

“hey, whatcha’ waiting for?” you ask wondering why he was looking at his reflection in his blacked out phone screen, seemingly about to walk into your room with no one in it.

“oh, y'know, was waiting for you actually, about earlier i was gonna ask you… if you…” he nervously taps his sides with his hands, chuckling a bit; it's not like… not like he liked you! he just likes looking at you, yeah.. that seemed right. definitely.

“if i..?” you question, voice laced with confusion, but you had an idea of what he was attempting to ask.

“if like, you know, wanna go out with me, do whatever, i like going to the gym, if you couldn't tell.” he holds up his arms, muscles prominent but not bulging.

you can't help but stiffle a giggle, whether it was because of his– albeit– childish attempt at impressing you or because of his overall cuteness is up to debate.

“sure, why not, i'll be off at five…ish? later. we can go get dinner or something.”

“yeah! yeah of course, ill stop by later then, count on it.” he winks, as you walk back into your room. when you closed the door he nearly skipped his way back to his own work base.

after this moment you two became surprisingly close, he wasn't the awkward overcompensater from when you first met. he was genuinely funny, and charming too! wow, what a package deal, you think.

–

days passed and the situation with the former president is finally over. you're unsettled with it all and you're on your way to joaquin's hospital room. you're upset he got dragged in so far but you did know it was a part of his job, still it made you soured your mood.

“hey joaquin.. how you doing today?” you walk in, sitting by his bed.

“better, thanks.. for being here.” he tries sitting up, groaning in the process.

“don't, you're gonna hurt yourself more.” your hand falls onto his, almost like natural instinct.

“sorry we haven't.. been able to go out lately. didn't think i'd get shot down from the sky.” he laughs, but with only a hint of humor in his actual tone.

you stare at him for a second, looking at his eyes, examining the damage. “you.. no. don't apologize, you'll get better. i know it.”

“can't wait to get outta here, we should get ice cream. i need something sweet or i might die.”

“hmm, to be fair you did almost die.” you lay your head on your hand, leaning closer to him.

“you're right, so that means we gotta go.” he glances at you, noticing your drowsy reddish eyes.

“mhm. m’ tired. didn't sleep last night.”

“why not?” he looks at you concerned.

“worried about you, haha..” you lean off of your hand, head landing on his lap. he watches as you slowly drift to sleep, still holding his hand, fingers interlocked.

his face is slowly fades into a pink color, and he holds your hand tighter, he falls asleep in this state as well, not wanting anything to ruin this moment between the two of you.

[prettyboykatsuki]

you have to start prepping for events like 3 hours early because you know there’s going to be at least an hour of xavier fucking you however he sees fit for the occasion and another half hour of trying to fix whatever he destroyed in the process

i dont even think he ruins it on purpose you know. you just look so nice and xavier is dedicated so eating you out under the skirt of your dress is him being polite. your panties are ruined for sure.

but your makeup and everything else being out of place are just happy accidents you know. once the moods set it's hard for him to stop and all. your smudged mascara and all the foundation wiped from your face is the unfortunate outcome 🙂‍↔���

[vacantgodling]

hey, it's btaf's first birthday, so i'm releasing part of draft 3 in celebration. for those who are unaware of how i'm writing this wip right now, each stage of the process is broken down into multiple 'drafts', with draft 3 being the first one where i am actually writing the first round of prose. it is a bit messy, inconsistent, and not fully historically sound (that's what drafts 4 & 5 will eventually be for) but my goal for now is to set the mood, tone, and add more dialogue, as well as once again expand on the previous two drafts! this isn't the entirety of act 1 (i still have so much more to write) but i figured i would give out a little sneak peak to gague reaction, vibes, and as a little thank you to everyone who's been on the journey so far with me as i find my way through what will be an eventual behemoth of a novel <3 no tw's apply (yet), just enjoy that sweet sweet long pondered over prose! for those who come across this while scrolling, welcome! you can find a summary of btaf here -> (x). without further ado though:

ACT I: THE HOUSE OF DEAR EDUARD

Casavantes Gaztelura, Basque Countryside — August 14th, 1811

The cruelest and craftiest of all the Devil’s handiwork—darkness—had descended upon and laid waste to the countryside. 

Beneath the canopy of towering conifers, thunder cracked; its bull-whip baritone lashing out against the blackened sky. Lightning, its more agile sister, leapt up from her tenuous slumber to dance between the thick cover of clouds that stretched wide across the haloed firmament above. 

The air of this region was impossibly stuffy and hot—linen stuck to the breast and strangled the throat if one’s buttons were too tightly closed. It was the common fashion to leave shirts open and hanging about the trousers or down the shoulders, at least, if there was no one about to witness it—so your nakedness could not bear sin and affront God. Yet, the slick stick of sweat was the least of the concerns of the travelers in the small caravan that was making its way north along a long forgotten tread. The former inhabitants of this land had carved this place to their desire and the faded path cut through the remnants of ruins on either side of its muddied walk. It was easy to imagine that many centuries before the present time—the seventh month of the good year of the Lord, 1811—that armies marched through these parts; perhaps to confront a disgruntled warmongering lord, or, perhaps a bishop traveling from a distant, far off land to christen a newborn babe of a powerful house. But none of the power and prestige of this land was left here. What ought to have been forts and bastions were crumbling and abandoned; weathered and withered away to time immemorial; their true purpose and nature lost to Antiquity. 

So too did their caravan look out of place in this dreary countryside; no trunks or provisions did they carry in the back of their covered carriage. No food or wine did they gnaw upon, though it could be argued they were not keen to have it moistened by something other than the saliva of their mouths, as a steady rain beat down upon them borne of the battle raging above. No weapons did they carry—never mind the rumors of bandits that crawled through the area like a particular infestation of gnats or fleas—nothing else on their persons except for the clothes on their back. It was hard to imagine what trials they may have faced, from wherever they had been wandering before they ended up in this evil part of the Basque. 

Two travelers there were: countenance grim between them, and not a single word spoken. As the thunder and lightning above them danced and cackled amongst itself; they were silent as church-mice, or recently scolded children who had nothing more to say, lest they be popped once again in the mouth. 

The person holding the leading mare’s reins—with youthful, elegant fingers, befit of a pianoforte player—was a woman of an olive complexion, which appeared darker by the deepness of the night that entrenched them. Her nose sat proudly and regally at the center of her face, with an elegant slope; a nose fit for royalty, her attire a complement of it: a fitted men’s riding frock of a thick tweed was affixed about her torso, shielding her from the worst of the elements. Glimmering, solid gold buttons shone in the darkened night; a symbol of her class, perhaps, but they hardly shone as brightly as something new, caked with days old mud or debris from the long journey. The shirt beneath her jacket was partially undone and the ties that keep it shut laid brazenly across the planes of her chest; such a display scandalous for a woman of any age, but especially for one at the age where men would turn their gaze down and betray God’s commandments to liken upon the soft curvature of supple skin and imagine how it would feel beneath their palm. Little flecks of moles dotted her bosom, and up to her slender neck; it would be worth the assumption that these little constellations follow her entire physique, but such observation of her lower form was obstructed by a heavy woolen skirt, which was bogged down only just by the rain. It was hard to make out any designs or patterns of it, but what little could be observed was that its hem, the same as the soles of her riding boots, was caked in the same mud that trampled ‘neath the mare that mushed their caravan. Her dark eyes glimmered eerily in the dark with another pass of lightning and she turned them to glance upon the passenger astride her, situated just to her left in their small charge. Close enough they were to touch but there was some invisible barrier there, in the scant space that their shoulders occupied, they dare not brush. Her shoulders were sloped, as her nose; regal and relaxed in her stature in a state of unbotheredness. Her companion’s however; were bunched. 

The man beside her was of an even darker complexion than she; rich, black skin that hid him in plain sight among the shrouds of darkened twilight. His nose was wide, his shoulders, wider, and his lips were plush; near feminine as were the dark lashes that framed his eyes, and fluttered in the wayward breeze like an angry shadow shivering in the backdrop of a plain wall. Water clung to the man and his clothes, drenching him to the bone and allowing the chill to settle deep into every seam and stitch he bore. It worked it's unsettling magic on his skin, it gleamed ‘neath the moon as it brushed it with its watchful gaze. These same droplets stood to attention across the kinky waves that fell loosely into his eyes and that gently cupped his face. His hair was long overdue for a haircut and stringy at the ends; rarely any a tempered folk would allow their tresses to see such a manner of unruliness; especially for those of the same hair texture as he, but he wasn’t tempered; couldn’t be. Some invisible tension gripped him taught; the space he could wriggle away from it was as thin as the space between himself and the caravan driver; as thin as the sliver of moon that cut through the night and shone upon his dark eyes; eyes dark as the abyss, and all the emotions that man could comprehend swallowed within them—the ones that lay repressed, deep within the cavity of the soul, and so too the ones that lay unabashedly bare, even if one ought to hide them. It was hard to tell if the wetness of the rain was what created the thin tracks of lighter skin between the mud that stuck to his cheeks, or if it were tears that even now glimmered unshed in the uneven lighting of midnight. Where the woman’s hands cradled the reins limply, only to guide the mare hence; the man’s hands gripped tightly into his dingy white trousers, of a similar kind and make befitted to those who’d serviced the great Napoleon, Emperor of Europe in his many battles of glory and soon, lore. Where his fingers breached the fabric it had begun to hole and fray. The jacket he wore was of a similar kind, with more holes and wear besides. Further unsettling was the dried and caked blood that clung to it, as a child clings to their mother. Both the jacket and the trousers seemed hardly fit to wear on any person, let alone one as large as the man who sat astride the elegant lady at the reins. It hardly contained him, yet also seemed to be the only thing preventing him from fully cascading apart.

As unlikely a pair they were, as thunder was to lightning, they sat amongst their own company; more silent than the unmarked graves they passed, and more weary than the dead who kept them.

After an undetermined passage of time, the caravan’s path was halted by a barrier, wrought with stones and iron, and held up only by what remained strong through passes of erosion and time. It was latched upon its outer side by a great bar; which should seem odd to ordinary folk. A gate’s purpose should be to protect and hold fast sanctuary of the occupants behind its grandeur, for the sake and protection of them thereof; not to keep them in. What horrors should the traveler’s find behind such a gate? This strange sight did not perturb either of them; though it was the woman who exited the carriage first. She hopped down into the deep mud, entrenching the hem of her woolen skirt into it as she sunk down into the moist, softened earth. She paid this no matter, then trudged through its wet, grabbing hands until she reached the iron-wrought gate. It towered over her—and she was a woman of stature herself. Still, she rolled back the sleeves of her coat and grasped hold of the iron bar with one hand. The metal groaned beneath her dexterous fingers; leaving a noticeable indenture and with ease, she swung the bar up and open. It crashed loudly to the other side of the gate from whence it was swung, and with her hand, she gently pushed the iron gate open, as though it were no heavier than a feather. It creaked on its age-old hinges but slowly gave way, and once the woman was satisfied with the opening she’d made, she returned and remounted the caravan seat next to her companion, who seemed just as unmoving as the statues and rubble around them.

She was the first to break the heavy quiet of the night, and the precursor to her voice was a tight lipped gesture with her lips, that in any ordinary situation ought to have been a smile. It was hard to tell if it were; or if it was a barely disguised grimace. 

“We’re almost there now, Sjaak.” She said softly. Sjaak did not reply, and when met with his silence, the woman sighed, taking hold of the reins once again. She flicked them gently and the mare pulling the caravan began to walk once more. She did not bother getting out to close the iron gate behind her, leaving them exposed to whatever else lurked in the pitch darkness behind them. 

A large, foreboding manor revealed itself to view; only visible perhaps, by the moonlight which finally made its bleak appeal through the stormy night sky; a spotlight on an elegant, if crumbling, time capsule of old. Gothic in style were its high and lofty ramparts, yet the many roofs of the structure were humble slopes of traditional Spanish terracotta, and the façade a distinct pattern of Isabelline plateresque; delicate baubles beaded in intricate patterns framed the balconies of darkened rooms, further obscured by the darkness of the entrenching night, their appearance enunciated by high pointed arches and hand crafted, spiraling rails that sought to bereft the living of an untimely demise. The central-most point of the manor, hidden acutely behind a large fountain of braying horses with one of their heads lobbed clean off and nowhere to be seen amongst the cobbled court, was a large wood and brass door, deep-set into the façade and surrounded on three sides by carved stone. In the usual style, perhaps heralds would be depicted, denoting a particular clan or class, or on cathedrals, scenes of the Bible or the holy works, such as that of Christ. But here there was no such enchantment. The stone winding the door was carved in Arabic, unusual for the time that this structure was hence erected, and a script that neither traveler seemed to heed or recognize. If they had, perhaps they would have read BEWARE, A TOMB OF SORROWS LIES HERE.

She did not bring them directly to the entrance and instead, guided the mare gently around the outside edge of the fountain and onto a beaten off path, trenched in mud, moistened from the rain still cascading around them. It was a temporary stable house, until a valet could come and guide the caravans and their steeds to a well-equipped carriage house and was hidden behind one of the large towers. Vines draped and wound over the archways of the structure. The roof groaned beneath the weight of water that had pooled in its bows, dripping and pooling into several buckets that were scattered around to catch the waves of the worst areas; rusted, but still usable. The woman dismounted from the caravan, then made her way to the other side. She stopped first, to unhook the mare from the caravan, whispering to it a few words of soft praise and rooted around in the large pockets of her frock for a few grains, which she then fed to the sweet beast. The mare accepted them with a whinny of pleasure, then lowered its neck to allow the woman to unhook the bit and bridle from round its great neck. 

Once this was done, she continued on her path until she stood just two steps down from where the man, Sjaak, was still sitting in place. Sheltered from the light of the moon, it should’ve been too dark to apprehend his position, but clear as day, the woman reached out to gently jostle his knee. This roused him. He sat up straight with a small start. 

“Have… have we arrived?” His voice creaked, common from lack of usage—as surely the two of them were quiet on their journey for quite some time—and in the dark, the woman nodded. 

“Do you think you can stand to see her?” 

A wind howled through the night just outside of the temporary shelter, rattling the handles of the rusted buckets, ruffling the needles of the conifers surrounding them, and seeped deeply into the countenance of Sjaak who jumped again, grabbing suddenly hold of the carriage with ashen knuckles—so tightly that the wood of the caravan creaked under his fingers, splintering. 

“It was only the wind.” The woman soothed. She squeezed Sjaak’s knee. “I do not wish to leave you out in the cold.” 

The woman gently took hold of Sjaak’s hand, prying it from its iron grip, as easily as she’d thrown the iron bar on the gateway only moments before. On shaking knees, Sjaak descended from the caravan, landing with an ungraceful thump by the woman’s side. Laws of propriety should have he lead her down from the carriage, but she did not seem to pay this any mind, as her companion still looked as though he’d chanced the sight of a ghost.

“We did not come all this way for my fright to claim the better part of me.” Sjaak said this, mostly to himself. He heaved in a large breath, then exhaled mightily, sending the wind back from whence it came. He turned his head to regard the woman, squeezing her hand for a long moment, then he released it. Aloud, he continued;

“I have longed to see her for many years—to learn what has become of her. Is she still as beautiful as I recall? As mirthful as a newborn fawn and as gentle as a babbling stream? Does her laughter still shame the cathedral bells, is her smile still sublime as a summer evening’s glow? Such were the thoughts I have thus pondered; from the evergreen fields of the Netherlands, that which she and I once called home, to the battlefields that have spirited me far hence. ‘Ere these dark times you detailed came to pass, I should have rushed upon the steps of this grand estate, ran through any foyer or obstacle, and thrown myself at her beautiful, unblemished feet to kiss them and repent my long absence.” He paused, a howl once again piercing the night. His expression darkened.

“... But as such times have… I hardly know if I am prepared to behold her in her current visage—should it truly be as horrible as you say.”

“What troubles you will not be put to rest when I guide you to her.” The woman’s voice was but a flickering candle’s flame. “I fear it could be even worse than either you or I imagine—as it has been near a year since I have laid eyes upon her myself.” Still, she set her path forward, and with little other option, Sjaak tarried for a moment, then slowly followed behind. 

They made their way across the worn cobbled path, back to the grand fountain and entrance to the manor, climbing its formidable steps one by one. They stopped before the threshold together, shoulder to shoulder as they were in their caravan and after a long stretch of a moment, the woman squared her shoulders then reached for the handle of the great brass door, grasping it with a only minute tremble of her palm. Then, she heaved; drawing the door back towards her. A baritone roar bellowed, cleaving the sounds of the storm above them in two. Stone squealed and metal groaned joining together as one echoing force to draw the formidable bowels of the deepest abysses of Hell opened before them. An overwhelming aura of dread coated them each in a layer of terror-laced tar; feathering them with the designs and marking them with premonitions of some long forgotten evil that should never have been released.

“Ongi Etorri.” A voice slithers from within. “Casavantes Gaztelura.”

“Come.” The woman utters, and it is forced. “To your Biscella, within.”

[suratan-zir]

Plyam update that no one asked for.

His spinal cord tumor is growing so fast that he went from a little weakness in his hind legs to full paralysis of his lower body in just over a week. All I can do is manage the inflammation with hormones to buy him some time. The good thing is that he doesn't seem to be in any pain, he is very active and acting completely normal, maybe a bit pissed that he can't climb and run as usual. I give him all the cuddles, skritches and treats and spend as much time with him as possible because every day could be the last.

This type of tumor, although possible, is not as common in rats. So Plyam is really unlucky… He is only a year and a half old. Hind leg degeneration occurs to some degree in most old rats (by "old" I mean anywhere from 2.3 to over 3 years old), but when it happens to them their abilities usually match their desires, they just want to sleep and chill for most of the day, so legs not working properly isn't such a big deal. But Plyam wants to run around, chase Skritch to show him who's the boss, dig in the dig box, climb on stuff…it's so sad. Even his little tail is fully paralyzed and limp. My poor boy. He is still somehow more active and mobile than his lazy chonky brother, lol.

[darkdragon768]

[valeriefauxnom]

Dragalia Lost Team, presumably: Okay, we wanna use that song of yours, Daoko, but the lyrics are maybe a little bit...suggestive for Nintendo. Can we just make a light and happy instrumental tune of it that players can enjoy as they play (we can still have the vocal tracks, but we'll hide 'em a bit so they're not quite as in Nintendo's face when they're testing it, 'kay?)

Daoko, presumably: Mh-hm.

(Insert many instrumental tracks)

Also Dragalia Lost Team: Okay, we need something happy for the summoning song. We think we found a good tune, and even a good lyric segment. At least, we heard the localization team overseas working on it was bopping to it. How's this sound?

The lyrics highlighted in question (not even a joke, these are actually the lyrics in the summoning song):

Bang, bang, bang, bang, love and die, A boy and a girl, lovers' suicide, Bang, bang, bang, bang, love and die, Shoot with a blue gun, ....(repeat first 3 lines)... ...I'll dye you blue!

...So yeah, if you didn't know, that's the section of Bang! Dragalia used, lyrics and all, for summoning. Honestly have no idea why they chose that one or got away with it, with Nintendo's name in the mix, but it sure was funny when I found out some years ago! Rather funny to have such a 'wholesome' game have some very unwholesome lyrics in probably one of the most played songs in game!

Bonus round:

This isn't actually verified despite my attempts, but I am 95% sure in my amateur ears that have enough trouble trying to understand what people are saying in English to begin with, that in the Greatwyrm theme, Crasher, at about the 1:55 minute mark, there's a random interjection of, 'kick my ass'.

Please check this one out for yourself, here. Maybe it was just the me of a few years ago projecting my will to finally beat one of those fights when they first released when you basically needed the entire 5min fight scripted in your head+3 other people that also knew their specific role and the fight, but I still cannot unhear it nor process what else it might be.

That is all.

[rhouxl]

Having unasked for little acts of kindness as your primary love language is an entirely different kind of cursed existence

[seventh-district]

.

[todayisafridaynight]

took a modern japanese history class just to flex on everyone that the only reason why i know so much about the meiji period is because im mentally disturbed about a franchise about criminals and they just so happened to make a game specifically about the meiji period

[br1ghtestlight]

realistic nightmares about almost getting murdered or dying are the worst. just experiencing what its like to realize you're about to die. those final moments knowing there's a gun to your head and there's nothing you can do to stop it and that you'll never experience another thought or memory. and then u wake up and it wasn't real so you cant even feel bad for yourself even though you've experienced literal death 😭😭 i have those dreams all the time

[braceletofteeth]

Post 5 QL Songs / OST

@scarefox tagged me 🥰🥰

Rules of the Game:

🎶They do not have to be custom-made for the series.

🎶Non-western tracks only. Let's support Asian music and languages!

🎶Feel free to tag anyone who may be interested in participating.

🎶Add #5qls tag to your post for others to find the new favourites!

》 Follow by Roce (Utsukushii Kare OST)

I feel I need to say this... P'Fox, I'm not copying you! 😂😂 Technically, I was already thinking of this song while reading the rules of the game the first time, and then when I found it in your list it was just like the pointing spidermen meme.

Now, about the song itself—I simply LOVE how the lyrics of the intros and outros from Utsukushii Kare were written from the perspective of the characters. Most OSTs are so vague and impersonal! They could be about anyone! But it's different in this case. The song is tailored to the nines. And the best part, it's a lot of fun to listen to!

》 Over the Moon by Khaotung (The Eclipse OST)

Admittedly, right now I've been listening more to Khaotung's new release, Let's Try (Only Friends OST). I never had the intention of putting two bad bitches against each other, but, in the end, my heart didn't hesitate. It's Over the Moon all the way.

SECRET TIME: I skip about 9 out of 10 intros, but I never skipped The Eclipse's. Not even once. The song is just that good, to me. Puts you in the right mood immediately.

》 Fallen for U by Gongchan (Unintentional Love Story OST)

GO GONGCHAN GO!!!!!!!

(we go way back) (I actually just had the worst time trying to choose just one (1) song from the OST of Unintentional Love Story. Why do I keep putting myself in these impossible situations...)

》 Free Fall (Love 2) by Slot Machine (KinnPorsche OST)

PhiangWaichai is the main theme of KinnPorsche, and is a total banger! But it also has several instrumental versions of it included in the OST, and one of my favorites is this one. It's the most evocative among them imo.

》 Ruin by Isaac Hong (Strangers From Hell OST)

Trust me.

—

And for my last trick, I'll be tagging a few people, who will ignore this if they don't wanna do it: @agendratum @saturnskyline @leporschespam @supernovasimplicity

<3

[khadijah551]

I’m about to not be WCIF, idk. It’s just starting to get annoying 🥴

[fruitsyrups]

do you just watch random adventure time episodes at your whim or only chronological rewatches?

[skhardwarevers1]

Caanat repsonf to rps and ama sad.

- @fictive-explosion

ahhhhh :( well hopefully you can soon !!!! Think abt that later. Dont let it bring down ur mood :(

[zhongli-lover-69]

hey girl is the room flooding or are you just happy to see me

[sunandmoonster]

it's honeatly such a pain in the ass to dislike the fandom's most popular ships 😫😩💀 whhyyyyy, brain whyyyyy :(((((