#‘it’s because you’re not active enough

[theonottsbxtch]

SERVE | MV1

an: im finally posting all my flipping requests - im sorry ive taken so long but expect me to be more active in the next month ish. i was working on this novel and ive finally finished my first draft so ill be able to write more on here ehehe

wc: 2.2k

The air inside Rod Laver Arena buzzed with anticipation. The crowd roared as she raised her arms in victory, another match won with the kind of effortless dominance that had long cemented her as the best in the world. Cameras flashed, reporters murmured, but she barely heard any of it. Her eyes scanned the stands, searching—until she found him.

Max stood near the players’ box, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his posture casual but his eyes locked onto hers. He always watched her like that. Like she was the only thing in the world.

She barely remembered handing her racquet to the ball kid or shaking hands with her opponent. One minute she was on the baseline, and the next, she was pushing through the crowd, past the security barriers, straight to him.

"Didn’t think you’d make it," she murmured, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the noise.

Max smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Miss one of your matches? Not a chance.”

Up close, she saw the exhaustion in the lines around his mouth, the tension in his jaw. The media had been relentless again, and she knew how much he hated it—not for himself, but for the way it always seemed to drag her into the mess, too.

"Yeah?" She arched a brow, fingers sliding into the collar of his jacket, tugging him a fraction closer. "Even with half the press calling you a liability?"

His breath hitched for a second. Only she could do that to him. "Thought you liked liabilities."

"I do," she said, lips curling into the smirk that drove interviewers mad. "You’re my favourite one."

Max let out a breath, the tension in his shoulders loosening just enough for her to notice. He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Didn’t know I was in a ranking system.”

She hummed, fingertips brushing against the fine fabric of his jacket. “You’re the only one in it.”

The crowd was still buzzing around them, the cameras snapping relentlessly, but none of it mattered. Not when she was looking at him like that—sharp eyes softening, the mask she wore for the world slipping just enough for him to see the girl he’d loved since they were fifteen.

She gave his jacket one last tug before stepping back. “Come with me.”

Max followed without hesitation, slipping through the tunnels of the stadium with practiced ease. He’d done this a hundred times before, dodging reporters and staff, but this time, the weight of the last few weeks clung to him like a second skin.

She led him into the players’ lounge, where the air was thick with the scent of sweat and freshly cut fruit. The moment the door shut behind them, she turned to face him.

“What’s going on?” she asked, arms crossing over her chest. She wasn’t just talking about the press. She never had to spell it out for him—she always just knew.

Max exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Same old shit.”

She frowned. “Your dad again?”

His silence was answer enough.

She muttered something under her breath, a sharp curse that made him smirk despite himself. “How bad?”

Max leaned against the nearest table, arms bracing on the surface. “Bad enough that I had to turn off my phone for a few days.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “He’s got the press eating out of his hand. Telling them I’ll never be good enough, that I’m holding you back, that you—”

“Stop,” she said firmly, stepping between his legs. Her hands rested on his chest, grounding him. “You know none of that is true.”

He swallowed, the heat of her touch chasing away the cold grip of doubt. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

She studied him for a moment, then—without warning—took his face in her hands and pressed a kiss to his jaw, right at the spot she knew made his breath hitch.

“Good,” she said against his skin. “Because I’m not wasting my time defending you to a bunch of idiots when I could be kissing you instead.”

Max let out a breathless laugh, arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her in. “Now that,” he murmured, “is the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

She grinned, fingers threading through his hair. “Then shut up and let me keep talking.”

And for the first time in weeks, Max let himself forget everything else—because when he was with her, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

He barely had time to smirk before she pulled him down, her lips pressing against his with the kind of urgency that made his head spin.

It was always like this with them—sharp words and sharper minds for the cameras, but when they were alone, none of that mattered. She kissed him like she needed it, like he was the only thing keeping her grounded, and he clung to that feeling like a lifeline.

His hands slid to her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her tennis kit as he pulled her closer. She sighed against his mouth, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, and he felt it—the tension in his chest finally breaking, giving way to something softer, something that only existed between them.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp, and Max groaned low in his throat. “You’re going to kill me,” he murmured against her lips.

She smirked. “That’s the plan.”

She kissed him again, slower this time, like she wanted to take her time undoing him completely—

A sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.

“Hey! Media in five minutes,” a voice called through the wood.

Max exhaled heavily, forehead dropping against hers as she let out a quiet groan. “I hate media,” she muttered.

“I hate media more,” he said, brushing his nose against hers.

She pulled back slightly, giving him a look. “Yeah, well, you don’t have to sit in a room for half an hour pretending to care what they think.”

He smirked, thumb tracing slow circles against her hip. “True. But you could just skip it. Tell them you got caught up with something important.”

She arched a brow. “And what would that be?”

Max grinned. “Me.”

She huffed a laugh, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before stepping back. “Tempting,” she said, smoothing her hair down. “But if I start skipping media obligations for you, they’ll start calling you a bad influence again.”

“They already do.”

She shot him a knowing look as she grabbed a water bottle from the nearby table. “Yeah, but if I do it, it’ll be true.”

Max shook his head, watching her with something caught between admiration and amusement. Even after all these years, she still had him completely wrapped around her finger.

As she reached for the door handle, she turned back to him, her expression softening just slightly. “You’ll be here when I get back?”

Max leaned back against the table, arms crossing over his chest. “Where else would I be?”

She held his gaze for a second longer before nodding. Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

And just like that, the noise of the world came rushing back in.

The press room was packed, cameras flashing as she took her seat at the table. The moderator gave the usual spiel about keeping questions respectful—not that anyone ever listened.

She took a sip from her water bottle, already anticipating the first round of questions. It was the same every time—something about her form, something about her rivals, and, inevitably, something about Max.

"Rough start to the match today," one reporter said, leaning forward. "Do you think the outside distractions are finally catching up with you?"

She raised a brow. "What distractions?"

The reporter cleared his throat. "Well, there’s been a lot of talk about Max and the negative press surrounding him. Some would argue that having a partner in the spotlight—especially one facing so much criticism—might be… well, holding you back."

The room went quiet. She felt her jaw tighten, fingers curling around the bottle in her hands.

Slowly, she tilted her head. "And how many titles do you have?"

The reporter blinked, caught off guard. "Uh—what?"

She leaned forward slightly, voice smooth as silk. "How many Grand Slam titles do you have?"

The man stammered. "I—I don’t play tennis."

"Right," she said, nodding. "And how many Formula One World Championships do you have?"

He opened his mouth, then shut it.

She smiled. "That’s what I thought."

A few people in the room stifled laughs, and even the moderator looked like he was holding back a smirk.

"Next question," she said easily, taking another sip of water.

And just like that, the subject was closed.

Max was still in the players’ lounge, leaning back on the worn leather sofa, one arm slung over the back as he scrolled through his phone. The live stream of her press conference was playing on the screen, but he already knew where this was going the second some smug reporter brought him up.

The question was barely out of the guy’s mouth before Max’s jaw clenched.

He knew the narrative well—he was the distraction, the liability, the one holding her back. It didn’t matter that she was literally the best in the world, that she had more Grand Slams to her name than most players could dream of. Somehow, the press always found a way to twist things back to him.

But then she hit the guy with that line.

"And how many titles do you have?"

Max sat up a little straighter, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

The poor bastard stammered.

"How many Formula One World Championships do you have?"

Max barked out a laugh, running a hand over his mouth. The entire room went silent, and then the barely contained amusement from some of the other journalists? Yeah, that was the cherry on top.

The guy had nothing. She knew it. The entire press room knew it.

And Max? He definitely knew it.

His phone started blowing up instantly—his teammate, a few other drivers, even his PR manager, all sending messages ranging from laughing emojis to "I owe her a drink for that one."

Max just shook his head, watching as she casually took a sip of her water, completely unbothered.

"That’s my girl," he muttered under his breath, grinning.

Because if the world wanted to come for him? Fine. He could take it. He always had.

But her? She was untouchable.

And she’d just reminded everyone exactly why.

The door swung open with a little too much force, slamming against the wall as she strode into the room. Max barely had a second to react before she was yanking her kit bag from the chair and stuffing things into it with sharp, irritated movements.

He smirked to himself, pushing off the couch. Oh, she was fuming.

"That good, huh?" he teased, leaning against the doorframe.

She shot him a glare before aggressively zipping up her bag. "They’re so annoying, Max. Every bloody time. Do I look like I need a press room full of middle-aged men questioning my priorities?"

Max bit back a laugh. He’d seen her mad before—at bad calls, at opponents, at losing a set she should’ve won—but this? This was entertaining.

He crossed the room in two strides, slipping behind her just as she reached for her jacket. His arms looped around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, right in front of the floor-length mirror.

"Baby, baby," he murmured, pressing his chin to her shoulder, "calm down."

She huffed, but her hands instinctively came to rest over his on her stomach. "Calm down?" she repeated, tilting her head slightly. "Do you know how much I want to throw a racquet at that guy’s face?"

Max grinned, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the side of her face. "I’d pay to see that."

She exhaled sharply, the tension in her body loosening just slightly. Max knew her too well—knew exactly how to disarm her with just a touch, a whisper, a perfectly timed kiss.

She caught his gaze in the mirror, and that sharp frustration softened into something playful. A wicked little idea flickered across her face.

"Give me your phone," she said suddenly.

Max raised a brow. "Why?"

She turned in his arms, holding out her hand expectantly. "Just give it."

He sighed dramatically but dug it out of his pocket, placing it in her palm. She unlocked it easily—of course she knew his passcode—and tapped into Instagram.

Max watched as she flipped the camera to the mirror, angling it so both of them were in frame. His arms were still around her, his face pressed into the side of hers, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

She snapped the picture, typed something quickly, then handed the phone back.

Max glanced at the screen. His feed refreshed. And there it was—his screen now showing her latest post:

"7 titles, 4 WDC & 2 WCC."

His brows lifted before a slow, proud smirk spread across his face.

"You little menace," he murmured, kissing the side of her head again.

She grinned. "Let’s see them try to talk shit now."

Max chuckled, slipping his phone back into his pocket before tightening his arms around her. "This is why I love you," he muttered.

She sighed, leaning into him. "Yeah, yeah. Now take me to dinner before I have to cuss someone out again."

Max just laughed, grabbing her bag and slinging an arm around her as they headed out—because that? That was the easiest request he’d had all day.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @isaadore

[tbaluver]

S/O With ADHD- The Love And DeepSpace Men

parings in order: Xavier x Reader, Zayne x Reader, Rafayel x Reader, Sylus x Reader, Caleb x Reader requested: by a couple anonnies ♥︎ a/n: hihi my lovelies! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ i just want to mention a disclaimer about this. while i do have adhd, everybody experiences things differently so what might be common for me, can be completely different to another person! these symptoms presented here are only what i’ve experienced and what my friends have experienced and what people have requested! do not refer to this to diagnose yourself. if you suspect you might have adhd, please refer to a professional! there will be a part two to this because theres more to add but anyways enjoy reading ! (∩˃o˂∩)♡ any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

He didn’t fully grasp the idea when you tried to explain your adhd to him, your thoughts would jump from one thing to another and he tried to keep up. He would do his own research to understand better what you were going through. He would notice the little things, the way you would say you 're going to do something but never actually start or how tasks seem to take you forever to finish.

No worries about being late or rushing to go on dates or hangouts with him, there’s no set start time. Often times the dates and hangouts are flexible. He’ll wait until you’re ready as long as he gets to spend time with you and eat yummy food together, he’s happy

Indulges and learns your hyper fixations and your current obsessions. He’ll learn more about them on his own time so he can talk more about them with you

If you’re okay with it, he’ll join you whenever you need to rest and watch your comfort shows whenever you’re feeling drained or overstimulated. He’ll make the atmosphere in the room feel more cozy either by giving you space, adjusting the lighting and closing the curtains, tucking you in your blankets, so you can recharge

Praises your smallest victories even if it was just cleaning your room or finishing a simple task in under an hour without thinking or worrying about it. He knows that even the simplest tasks can feel overwhelming so when you manage to do something without thinking or bed rotting before doing something, he’s genuinely proud of you.

Zayne:

He would truly listen when you go off on a tangent of your hyperfixations, letting you ramble about them without interrupting you. Even if you branch off too many topics that you swear relates to the main topic, eventually forgetting what the point was, he patiently brings you back to the main point.

“..wait what was I talking about?”

“you were talking about how ___ and __”

He’s very organized, constantly tidying and rearranging things for you without needing to be asked. He doesn’t mind it at all. He organizes in a way that he knows would help you but if you ever forget where something is, he’s quick to help you. lost your keys? by the dining room table. your jacket? in the laundry basket. your phone? you’re holding it

Tries to keep his explanations short and easier to understand. He’ll give you just enough without getting lost in any unnecessary details

When he’s not around, he helps you by texting you on specific times to check up on you or to help shift your focus

Separate calm activities alone but together with him. You could be doing your own thing while he reads his book(s) or finishes up any medical reports

Calculates how long it usually takes you to get ready, so he’ll plan dates with reservation an hour or two ahead of time, sometimes maybe even more depending on the date, just to avoid overwhelming you. He’s always patient and understanding, sometimes he’ll help you get ready to take the weight off your shoulders

Rafayel:

In the beginning, he’ll notice you can run late to things but once you explain that it’s because of your adhd, he’ll be more understanding. Still, he can’t help but tease you just a little but he means well. He’ll just plan more hangouts that don’t require any set start time, just as long as you two are together at the end

Yap sessions with him take up an ungodly amount of hours. You both branch off to different topics, each one you both swear is just as important as the last, so the conversation goes in different directions. It takes forever to circle back to the original point.

He loves hearing about your hyper fixations. You can tell him everything, every little fact and he’ll ask you a million questions, indulging in your passion for it as well.

Loves to spend time with you but he is mindful and lets you have the space to unwind whenever you might feel overstimulated or just need to recharge

Shows so much encouragement whenever you show your creative and passionate side. He’ll recognize and appreciate the things you’re good at, even if you’re not able to see it in yourself

It’s canon that he sends you separate messages instead of big blocks of texts but its not because that’s how he feels more comfortable texting but also because he knows that long paragraphs can feel overwhelming. He doesn’t want you to miss anything or feel pressured to read through a lot at once

Sylus:

Lets you hold his hand whenever you want, no need to ask. He knows how much you fidget and he loves how you rub circles on the back of his hand, melting under your touch. If it helps you feel better, then go ahead. He’d even buy you rings to fidget with, ones that maybe match and also just so you can have something to twist and twirl when he’s not around

He adores listening to your obsessions and your hyper fixations, letting you ramble your latest interests or the new trinkets you’ve added to your collection. He’ll even surprise you with little trinkets he remembers from past conversations, knowing they would make you smile

Enjoys spending time with you even if you were focused on your own thing, whether it was hobby related or just unwinding in your own way while he’s also doing his own thing.

When you need help focusing and he’s not around, he’ll reach out at a certain time to check in and help refocus your attention

Doesn’t really send you paragraph lengths of text messages but sends you shorter messages so it doesn’t feel as overwhelming. He’ll mostly send voice messages that are short and the right length so it doesn’t let your mind drift away

Online shopping with him can help so you can control yourself from impulse buying so many things. He doesn’t mind you buying the entire world with his card but sometimes he has to stop you from buying things you absolutely don’t need

Caleb:

It’s easy for tasks to slip through or become overwhelming. You might start one thing but your mind jumps to something else and it takes a while before you can get back to what you were originally doing. Caleb would help by breaking down your chores one at a time or with more manageable steps or most of the time he’ll step in and take care of things for you so you don’t feel burdened.

If anything important was coming up the day after, he’ll leave little sticky notes for you all over the house, each one with a tiny apple doodles. They’ll be on your mirror, bedroom door, anywhere else he knows you’ll see them

Ever since you were a kid, he’ll still help you go over any of your works or anything you were unsure about when you feel like you missed any details. He’ll make sure you don’t miss anything

Never judgemental at all if you cut him off mid-sentence. He understands that you need to get your thoughts out quickly before they slip away so he lets you speak freely without worry

Sometimes you might forget to reply to a message or forget to come back to the conversation, so he’ll send a follow up message like, “whaddya think pipsqueak? :o” or he’ll send you a post to bring you back to the convo

If you’re struggling to focus on something, instead of pushing you to keep going, he’ll encourage you to take a break. He’ll help you ease back into it whether it’s breaking things down further or offering some encouragement

[misswynters]

Picking baby names isnt easy...

short drabble

featuring. ekko x pregnant! reader

a/n. im sorry i just cant get enough of it, seriously (idk what this is but here you go everyone!) back from the dead

Soft rain sounds pattered against the windows as you sat in Ekko’s hideout, your feet propped up on a stack of cushions. The dim light cast a warm glow over the room, highlighting the scattered trinkets and gadgets Ekko had been working on. You were wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies, feeling cozy despite the growing weight of your belly.

Ekko paced back and forth across the room, muttering to himself as he tinkered with two small devices. He recently told you he was working on there cute anklets for the twins that would alert him if they were ever in danger. He already made one for you, at the back of it there was a small watch that could turn back time. But he emphasized that it should only be used if you were in a situation you knew you couldn't make it out alive. Luckily you never needed to use it. ANYWAYS. His movements were restless, like he couldn’t sit still. You watched him with a small smile, finding his energy endearing.

“Ekko,” you called softly, and he glanced up, his hands still fiddling with the wires.

“Yeah, Firefly?” he replied, tilting his head at you.

“Come sit with me,” you said, patting the space next to you.

His face softened immediately. “In a minute,” he said, though you could see him hesitating.

“Ekko,” you said again, a bit more pointedly. “I’m pregnant, and I want cuddles. Now.”

That did it. He set the baby anklets down with a laugh and crossed the room to you. “You always know how to get your way, huh?” he teased, plopping down beside you.

You leaned into him with a grin. “It’s a talent of mine.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. His other hand instinctively went to your belly, where the twins gave a small kick in response. Ekko’s eyes lit up, his grin spreading across his face.

“The little ones active today,” he murmured, rubbing slow circles over your stomach.

You hummed in agreement, resting your head on his shoulder. “Probably because their dad never sits still.”

“Hey!” he protested, though his laugh gave him away. “I’m totally calm and chill.”

“Sure you are,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge.

For a moment, the two of you just sat there, listening to the rain and enjoying the quiet. Then, out of nowhere, you felt a small pang in your back. A sharp pain that made you wince.

Ekko noticed immediately, his eyes wide with concern. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it the twins?”

You shook your head, trying to wave him off. “It’s just a little back pain. Comes with the territory.”

But Ekko wasn’t having it. “Alright, that’s it,” he declared, gently guiding you to lean forward a bit. “You’re getting a massage.”

You laughed, trying to protest. “Ekko, you don’t have to—”

“Shhh,” he cut you off, already starting to work his hands over your shoulders and back. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and you felt yourself relax almost immediately.

“Better?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Much better,” you admitted, melting under his care.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Good. Gotta take care of my Firefly.” You couldn’t help but smile at the nickname, your heart swelling with affection. Ekko always had a way of making you feel like the most important person in the world.

“Y’know,” he said after a moment, his hands still kneading your shoulders, “I’ve been thinking about what we should name the them.”

“Oh?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “What ideas do you have?”

He grinned, clearly excited. “Okay, hear me out: what if we name them something cool, like Blaze and Nova?”

You laughed, the sound filling the room. “Ekko, those sound like superhero names.”

“Exactly!” he said, his grin widening. “Our twins are going to be heroes. Just like their mom.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “And their dad,” you added.

You sat there for a bit pondering about names to give the twins since you were going to be due soon. Never even given the though of giving them a name yet. "What about Noa and April?" you added looking at him, with cute clear eyes. Trying your hardest to find the twins some good names. Who knew it would be tough.

"Eh, Personally I don't like it. Anyways," Ekko’s expression softened at that, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. You couldn't believe he quickly switched the subject. “We’re gonna be a good team, Firefly. You, me, and the little ones.”

You leaned into his touch, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “I know,” you said softly.

Suddenly, Ekko shifted, kneeling down in front of you so he was eye-level with your belly. “Alright, babies,” he said, his tone has a hint of mockery with serious undertone. “You better behave in there and stop giving your mom back pain, or we’re gonna have a few words when you get out.”

You burst out laughing, covering your face with your hands. “Ekko, you’re hilarious!”

He grinned up at you, his eyes sparkling. “Yeah of course i am.”

“I love you,” you admitted, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair.

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment before pressing a soft kiss to your belly. “And I love you, too. All three of you.”

The sweetness of the moment made your heart ache in the best way. Ekko was everything you could’ve hoped for: supportive, loving, and just the right amount of goofy.

As he climbed back onto the couch beside you, he wrapped you in his arms, holding you close like he never wanted to let go. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I’m really lucky to have you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ekko tightened his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Nah, Firefly. I’m the lucky one.”

And as the rain continued to fall outside, the two of you stayed curled up together, safe and warm in each other’s arms, dreaming of the bright future ahead.

this is absolutely lazy of a drabble… 0-o

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banner. @anitalenia

[itertarot]

TAROT | YOU

How can you practice self love:

Pick an image:

Pile 1:

You’re a very practical person, my Pile 1. You need to practice self-love by keeping your feet on the ground. Stability is essential for you, and it’s important to live in the present, avoid getting lost in fantasies or planning without taking action. Routine is key, and for some of you, even having a spreadsheet or diary to track daily tasks can be incredibly helpful. Take care of your finances. Where are you spending your money? Are you earning enough? How can you improve your financial life? Stability is closer than you think, and this is an area where you can make meaningful progress. For some of you, it’s important to avoid impulsiveness and unnecessary conflicts. It’s okay to speak your mind, but do so in a grounded way. Remember, attacking someone’s ideas isn’t the best way to change their perspective. Others in this pile need to cut out things that are holding you back from growth, but be mindful of what you’re removing. Take care in the process.

Practice patience, my dear Pile 1. Engage in slow activities, try meditation, gentle exercises, or walks in quiet places. Slow down your brain and avoid overstimulating programs or apps. When was the last time you read a book? Do you think you could pass an exam right now if needed? Is your brain being treated right?

You can benefit from seeking knowledge, joining a community, or starting a new course. Your mind is craving to learn and expand. Turn inward and do the inner work. Search inside yourself for what you truly desire and who you truly are, not who you’re supposed to be. Also, my Pile 1, do small things that make you happy. Take time to do what you enjoy, even if it seems meaningless or like a waste of time. Go watch that movie you’ve been procrastinating on, start that hobby you always put aside, or buy that decor or clothing item you’ve been wanting. Pamper yourself a little it’s okay to spend money on yourself sometimes.

Pile 2:

(You could watch the Tinker Bell movie)

Hello, Pile Number 2, how are you?? Darling, do you know how you can practice self-love? By giving! Do you have things you no longer use? Things that are just taking up space in your home? You can benefit from donating to people who will make good use of what no longer serves you. For some reason, Marie Kondo came to mind, maybe you should look into the KonMari method to organize your home, because organization and donation are important for this pile. You can also engage in social projects.By helping, you receive, that’s the motto here. You are good people, and for some of you, the number 6 might be significant, perhaps in numerology, or maybe it’s a number you like or that holds some meaning for you. Nurture your feelings, keep being good people without fear of getting hurt. Unfortunately, not everyone will appreciate you for who you are, not everyone is good, but don’t let difficult people or situations harden your heart. Allow yourself to feel and be affectionate. There’s nothing wrong with being sentimental.

What skill are you good at? What do you want to learn? Learn it now! For some of you, this includes hands-on work like painting, gardening, or anything that involves creating with your hands. Unleash your creativity! Fill yourself with ideas and let them flow. Write a book, paint a picture, try something new, anything you want, no matter how crazy it seems!

Step out of your comfort zone. Plan for the future: travel, career, where you want to be in 3 months, what short-term goals you want to achieve, etc. Take the leap! Be courageous and determined. Don’t let fear stop you from shining!! But, just like Pile Number 1, be mindful of impulsiveness and how you communicate with others. Avoid unnecessary fights and strive to express yourself clearly and non-aggressively.

Pile 3:

My dear Pile 3, you have so much pain to deal with right now. You need to mend your broken heart! Allow yourself to feel the pain, but don’t get stuck in it. Grieve and release what hurts you. I’m sorry for what you’ve lost, and if you’re feeling hopeless, I understand. But you need to look at what you still have and what you can achieve. Look around you and see what’s waiting for you. Remember: "The past is history, the future is a mystery, but today is a gift." Recognize how strong you are, and be proud that you’re still here. Give yourself some credit, even through hardship, you’ve managed to come this far. Don’t be afraid to stand up for yourself and set boundaries. You deserve to be treated with dignity.

Do small things that make you happy. Drink a cup of coffee or tea, bake a delicious cake, watch a comedy or rom-com, or listen to fun, uplifting songs. Take small steps toward happiness, it will slowly help you heal your broken heart. Also, connect with people who love you: your partner, family, best friends, or anyone who can support you. Accept help, you are worthy of being loved! Also, i heard that someone here feels like there's no one by yourself, but darling you have someone waiting for you, even if you didn't meet them in the 3D.

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel and a whole world waiting for you to discover it.

Pile 4:

Similar to Pile Number 3, you’re also dealing with some heartbreak, Pile 4. Maybe something in your life has ended, or perhaps you’ve been struggling with depression. Whatever it may be, know that you are strong, and the universe has something much better in store for you. Accept change and surrender to destiny.

What do you want in life? What kind of connection do you crave? For some of you, an important message is this: to have a real connection, whether it’s a soulmate, twin flame, or deep bond, you need to let go of connections that no longer fulfill you as you need. I truly believe most of you are already doing the work and staying strong. Very logical personalities here. Keep standing up! You love yourself by respecting yourself. You can also seek help if you’re feeling lonely or left behind. Remember, a bad day is not a bad life, nor can a bad week or bad months define your life. You will be happy again, this is just a difficult moment.

Love yourself as a whole, every part of you. Your personality, your looks, your body, your hobbies, the way you behave, speak, and think, all of it. Love yourself. Recognize that you are THAT GIRL and step into your power. Nurture yourself. Do skincare, take care of your hair, go on picnics, do a fantasy or cottagecore photoshoot, enjoy your clothing style, buy gifts for yourself, bake a cake, paint something, or try gardening. For some reason, I also see making a gin too. Someone here can enjoy making drinks.

Start again. And good luck🤍

[owiil]

Sterek prompt: birthday surprise!

“No.”

“You can’t just say ‘no.’ Besides—” Stiles huffed and rolled his eyes. “—if you didn’t actually want him, you would have said something.”

Derek stared at him for a long handful of moments. Blinked. Continued starting. “I would have said— Stiles. This. I opened the door and you literally said ‘surprise.’ For what part of a surprise am I supposed to tell you, in advance, that I don’t want it?”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed in an attempt to read Derek’s face better, to see if there was some lingering hint of an expression other that exasperated… disappointment? Irritation? Whatever was accompanying the exasperation wasn’t positive. And, unfortunately, it didn’t look like there were any secrete messages lingering in Derek’s eyebrows or any other part of his face.

He snorted. “You have werewolf hearing Derek. I’ve been actively working toward this for three months.” Twisting, he gestured emphatically at the living room, which now, aside from Derek’s normal living room furniture (and the couch that Stiles will always say is his since he picked it out), there was an empty pet crate on the floor and a rather cozy looking orange cat curled on the middle cushion of said couch. "You really expect me to believe that you didn’t overhear what I was doing? I mean, come on. I was zero percent expecting this to be an actual surprise. How are you surprised?”

At that, Derek looked… lost, almost. Caught off guard by the undeniable truth of Stiles’ argument. After a moment, his jaw went square and his brow furrowed. “You spelled yourself.”

Stiles snorted, again, louder, more derisive. “No.”

A moment passed between them during which the only sound came from Clive’s monstrously loud purring from across the room—which, Stiles hadn’t gotten the cat because his name was Clive, but… honestly, hilarious. No. No... Clive had been a scalpel sharp application of an accumulated full year of research into both Derek and cats.

“I’ve literally been asking you about pets.”

“That was a year ago,” Derek said, immediately, because clearly he was catching on, knew Stiles well enough to know that, at this point, despite all appearances, the appearance of Clive in his home at six PM on a Wednesday was not, in fact, spontaneous.

“I got you to sign up as a shelter volunteer with me.”

“Last summer,” Derek said, also immediately, but less confident, and Stiles knew what was happening, knew he was starting to collect all of the pieces, put them all together.

“I mean, I said ‘surprise’ when you walked in— Also, Derek, why… Please tell me you didn’t not hear two heart beats? What is wrong with you?”

“I—” Derek said, the words choking in his mouth but the flush blossoming over the tips of his ears giving him away better than anything else could have and Stiles couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh. My. God!” He laughed some more while taking a step forward and sliding into Derek’s space. “You were thinking about birthday sex. You were so distracted by the thought of bending me in half like a… I don’t even know, bendy straw—”

Derek’s brow pinched as he looked away—to the side and up, as though praying to someone or something, anything.

“—you didn’t even notice there was another heart in your own house. I don’t know if I should be flattered or mortified for my own safety.”

Derek’s eyes rolled and took their sweet time drifting back to him, his lips pressed into a fine line. “You are the last person I need to worry about the safety of these days. At this point, I’m more of a damsel than you are.”

Unable to help from grinning, Stiles shrugged, preening as he continued to lean even further into Derek’s space. “I mean, you’re not necessarily wrong. And while I’m very happy that we’re at a point in our lives now where the biggest drama of the week is the fact that you, adorably, think you are not keeping Clive—”

“Clive,” Derek sighed, like it was curse or, perhaps, the most ridiculous word to leave his mouth.

“—Clive,” Stiles repeated, raising his hands and pressing them to Derek’s chest, massaging his fingers against Derek’s pectorals. “—I do get a little sad that I don’t get the opportunity to treat you like the pretty princess you are.”

Despite looking thoroughly put out and begrudged, warm hands settled on Stiles’ ass. “You did save me plenty in high school.”

“Never got to carry you princess style,” Stiles lamented.

And then, finally, the corners of Derek’s lips twitched and he laughed. A soft huff of a thing, but a laugh nonetheless and more than enough to break the utter sourness that had been his expression since the moment he walked into the room. “You think you could now?”

Stiles shrugged. “Give me three weeks to do some charting and scrounge up the money for another tattoo and I’m sure I could inject some super strength into my body that would last long enough to traipse you around beautifully.”

Rolling his eyes, again, Derek leaned forward and pressed his smile and his face into the junction of Stiles’ neck. “You’re fucking ridiculous.”

“I’m adorable, and the biggest reason you’re mad at Clive is that you probably think that him being on the couch means that you have to do something cat dad-ish right now instead of screwing me literally anywhere else except the couch. Except you don’t, because I already moved all of his things into the coat closet and he’s fed and watered and ten years old so all he’s going to do is sit around and sleep while you both take naps in the sun.”

He tilted his head as he spoke, giving Derek more access to rub his stubble against him until the skin turned red and became sensitive, just to stop before it could become borderline painful and start kissing. “I’m not into voyeurism.”

Stiles laughed, loud and bright, hands sliding down Derek’s chest to hook in the belt loops of his pants. “Oh my god, Derek. It’s a cat, not Scott.” Just to gasp and cackle when, with an indifferent hum, Derek hooked his hands around the backs of Stiles’ thighs and hauled him up over his shoulder. “Wait. Wait!”

Obediently, Derek waited, standing still, fingers tapping an impatient tempo against the backs of Stiles’ legs. “What?”

“Close the door. Clive’s never been outside and he’s far too old and too precious to be let roam around.”

Heaving a put upon sigh, Derek turned around and closed the door. “I knew you would love him.”

Derek snorted. “I love you. I’ll tolerate Clive.”

“You’re going to be a great cat dad,” Stiles said with a laugh that cut off with a soft grunt when Derek slapped his ass hard enough to sting—the good kind that went straight to his dick. “Come on. Get me behind a door before Clive sees something he shouldn’t.”

[sosomonimagines]

Rewriting: House's girl - part one.

"House, overnight, needs to learn how to be a father"

⚠️ abuse, but not very explicit

The previous night had been hell.

Sean, that pretentious guy your mom met at an art convention, had another meltdown directed at you. All because of a single dirty plate. Just one plate. You were exhausted — you’d spent the entire day at school and had planned to wash it the next day, no excuses. But Sean didn’t care. He hurled the plate at you. Shards flew everywhere, some even got stuck in your hair. Then he punched the wall, screamed some more, and stormed off to bed.

Your mom did nothing.

She never did.

It was insane, to say the least.

She spent a few hours a day acting like a normal person, then would snap and say she couldn’t stand to look at you anymore. That because of you, she’d had to work as a lawyer and give up her talent for art. That you were holding her back from soaring.

She used to be a real mom, once. Before Sean. Two years ago, he started messing with her head. And now, to both of them, you were just a burden. Someone to take their anger out on. Your mom had turned cruel. She let Sean be cruel to you.

And you were tired. You were tired every single day. You spent as much time as possible at school—studying, joining every extracurricular activity you could. Anything to stay away. Anything to make sure your future didn’t end up trapped there.

But the few hours you had to spend at home were becoming unbearable. So, you decided to leave.

That night, at just 15 years old, you packed your things.

You stuffed some clothes into your backpack, along with your tablet for studying, your Kindle, your phone charger, and $50. You left the house at 2:30 in the morning.

That night, you slept on the street.

It was Saturday, and for a moment, you felt relieved you didn’t have to go to school. You had a whole weekend to figure out what to do with your life.

The street was terrifying. Cold. You curled up in a parking lot, hoping no one would bother you. You were ready to scream, kick, make a scene if you had to. But you couldn’t sleep properly. By 7:30 a.m., you were already up, walking to the social services office.

You filled out a form. Minutes later, you were called in. The woman who helped you looked to be in her fifties, with short, dark red-dyed hair. She wore round glasses that were too big for her thin face. Her eyes were tired but firm.

“You don’t look a day over eighteen,” she said, serious.

“Well, I’m not. I’m 15.”

“And what are you doing here?”

“My stepdad got aggressive last night. My mom did nothing, as usual. I decided to leave before it got worse.”

“Did you file a police report?”

“No.”

“What about your dad?”

“Well…”

“Why didn’t you file a report?”

“Because he didn’t hit me”

The woman sighed, leaning her elbows on the desk.

“Look, without a police report and with you being a minor, options are limited. Your dad… is he in jail or something?”

“No.”

“Does he live in the city?”

“Yes.”

“And can he support you?”

“He’s a doctor.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Let me get this straight. Your dad’s a doctor, and you’re here at social services looking for shelter? Do you know what the options are for a minor? Either a shelter or a juvenile detention center if you have a criminal record. Do you have one?”

“No!”

“Then we’ll contact your dad.”

“But he doesn’t like me.”

“Is he abusive?”

“No.”

“Not emotionally, not physically?”

“No, he’s just… hard to explain.”

The woman closed the folder.

“Listen, kid. The shelter isn’t a good option. People do what they can, but the state doesn’t provide enough resources. Go to your dad. You don’t want to end up in a place like that.”

You took a deep breath as she picked up the form, read your dad’s name, and typed something into the system. The report about your running away was there. And within minutes, she was on the phone, relaying everything.

You definitely didn’t want to go to his place. Gregory House was a man built to be alone. Brilliant and cold. People said he had no feelings. You’d seen him only a handful of times in your life, and you were never greeted with a hug. Never with warmth. He fulfilled obligations, sent you money, but never tried to be a father. Now, it seemed like that was about to change.

“He’s on his way to pick you up.”

“He agreed?!” You blinked, surprised. You thought it would be a long, complicated process.

The social worker took your hand and gave you a warm look.

“No matter how much you think he hates you,” she said, “no father likes to see his daughter in a situation like this. Well… almost no father.”

He arrived a few minutes later. He wasn’t alone.

Beside him was a man you’d never seen before. They approached, and it was the stranger who greeted you first.

“Hi, I’m James Wilson, your dad’s friend,” he said, smiling.

Your father stood beside him, leaning on his cane, with a look that said he’d rather be anywhere else. Did he even care?

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you replied. “Hi, Dad.”

House just nodded, without much enthusiasm. He definitely wasn’t thrilled to be pulled out of his routine so early.

“So, your mom finally lost it for good?”

“House!” James scolded him.

He sighed, impatient.

“Where’s your stuff?” he asked, cutting off any attempt by his friend to lecture him.

“Just this backpack. I left in a hurry.”

James gave you a sympathetic look.

“Let me carry that for you,” he murmured, taking the strap of the backpack and guiding you to the car.

When you got in, he glanced at you through the rearview mirror.

“Are you hungry? We can stop to eat.”

“We’ll be late,” House grumbled, annoyed.

“You’re always late, House. And this would be the first time you’d have a good excuse.”

You forced a smile.

“I’m not hungry. I just want to go home.”

You hated being a burden. And at that moment, you knew you were—especially to your dad.

James didn’t push it. He just drove to Baker Street, apartment 221B. You’d never been to his place before and were surprised. The place was… cozy. A huge bookshelf filled with books, a piano, dark upholstered couches, a full kitchen—though you doubted he cooked anything more complicated than grilled cheese.

“There’s a guest room at the end of the hall. It’s yours until we figure this out,” House said finally, still leaning on his cane, with his usual sarcastic expression. “I have to work. I’ll probably be back late.”

“Good luck with work,” you replied, trying to sound light.

James smiled and thanked you. House simply ignored it.

The guest room was good enough.

A large bed, a spacious wooden wardrobe, and a small desk that could double as a study area. It was dusty, probably from lack of use, and the lamp didn’t work.

You sighed in relief. Maybe you’d finally have a little peace.

You tossed your backpack onto the bed, grabbed some old clothes, and headed to the bathroom. You let the hot water run over your body, feeling the tension slowly melt away. You only realized you’d wet your hair when it was too late—and the only shampoo available was a men’s one that smelled like mint and something woody. You used it anyway. You grabbed the rough loofah and scrubbed your skin until it turned red, as if you could scrub away the remnants of last night. As if you could wash it all away.

After getting dressed, you went to the kitchen and drank more water than you had in a long time. How long had it been since you’d had a proper drink? Your body felt starved for it.

Finally, you decided to clean the room. You found a rag and a vacuum cleaner tossed in some corner. You dusted everything, vacuumed the floor, and changed the bedsheets—you found clean linens in your dad’s room and knew he probably wouldn’t be happy you’d taken them. But at that moment, you didn’t care.

By the time you finished, it was already 9 a.m. Your entire body felt heavy. Not just from the physical effort, but from the exhaustion that had built up over the past few months. From the anxiety. From the tension.

You closed the curtains, lay down on the bed, and fell into a deep sleep.

You woke up to a cane poking your face—not subtle at all.

Your father stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

“Did you take my sheets?” he asked, cutting straight to the point.

You stared at him for a few seconds, not answering. He cleared his throat, as if he didn’t have the patience to wait.

“I brought dinner. You’d better come out before I have to deal with another headache about you being mistreated.”

You slowly pushed the sheets aside, feeling the weight of your body. Maybe you’d slept too much.

On the table, you found a takeout container from the hospital cafeteria. Pasta with tomato sauce and meat. You felt immediate relief—you hated mac and cheese, but any other kind was welcome. Did he know that? Or was it just a lucky guess?

“Thanks for the food,” you said.

House didn’t respond.

You served yourself and sat down at the table. He did the same, with a burger on one side and a bottle of whiskey on the other. He poured himself a shot.

The silence dragged on. Long minutes. Maybe hours.

“So… how was work?” you asked, trying to lighten the heavy air.

He didn’t even blink.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make small talk. Try to be polite. I’m helping because you’re my daughter. My legal obligation.”

The coldness of his words didn’t hit you as hard as it should have. Maybe because you’d expected something like this. Maybe because, deep down, you knew he wasn’t as bad as he pretended to be.

"And you don’t have to be a jerk all the time," you shot back, crossing your arms. "I know something hurt you in the past and made you build this wall around yourself, but you’re not a sociopath. Or a narcissist… okay, maybe a little narcissistic. But aside from the depression, there’s nothing seriously wrong with you. So, please, just tell me how work was. I care about you."

House rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Oh, great. Not only do I have a daughter, now I have a therapist. I don’t know which is more annoying."

You smirked.

"Any interesting cases?"

"A girl with cancer having hallucinations."

"Is the tumor pressing on her brain or something?"

"No. We don’t know yet."

"You should check for a blood clot."

He didn’t respond, but you saw the analytical glint in his eyes. A glint that said your suggestion wasn’t as absurd as it might have sounded. House knew you were smart—with his genes, it would’ve been hard not to be—but he didn’t expect your intelligence to lean toward medicine.

After dinner, he went to the living room, and you followed.

He sighed audibly, giving you a sarcastic look before turning on the TV to some generic medical drama.

"I thought doctors hated these kinds of shows."

"It’s fun watching them get the diagnoses wrong."

"Got it. What’s this one called?"

"My God, do you always talk this much?"

"Usually worse. But come on, I’m 15 and I barely know you. I have questions."

"Please don’t ask them."

"Aren’t you even a little curious about your own daughter?"

"Not really."

You laughed.

"You’re so boring."

Silence settled as you both watched. At some point, even though you’d slept all day, you ended up dozing off.

When you woke up in the middle of the night, you were covered with a blanket.

And you knew it had been him.

Maybe your dad wasn’t so bad after all.

[respectissexy]

Things I find myself telling my teen patients often, in no particular order.

(I am not your therapist and nothing in this post is a substitute for getting your own personal mental health treatment if you need it.)

Being a teenager sucks. Your brain is in a state of development where all your emotions are intensified, and those emotions are frequently bad because being a teenager sucks. You’re basically an adult when it’s convenient for the adults, and a kid when it’s convenient for the adults. This is crazymaking. It is my opinion that critics of “it gets better” messaging do not recall being a teenager very well. I’m not saying being an adult is a picnic. But generally speaking it beats the hell out of being the legal property of your parents while your brain is going brrrrr.

On that note, if you have any kind of mental illness, these may be your worst, most symptomatic years. 

Your brain is also in a stage of development where new habits are more likely to stick. That means that if you and I (33) both started learning Russian tomorrow, you would be more likely to stick with it and get better at Russian faster than me; but if you and I started doing a new drug tomorrow, you would be more likely to get addicted.

It’s normal to hate living with your parents even if you love them. I’m not saying you have to love your parents, but if you do, that doesn’t obligate you to enjoy living under the same roof. MANY adults have loving relationships with parents they would never want to live with again. (It may also take a few years of living apart for you to determine whether you actually hate your parents or whether you just hate living with them. This too is normal.)

There’s nothing wrong with going through phases. If you believe that what you’ve got going on right now is going to be your permanent identity, well, you’d know better than anybody else; but it’s fine if it’s not. “I’m into this right now” is good enough and people should respect it.

How much time you spend on your phone is less predictive of mental health outcomes than what you are actually doing on your phone. Three hours of gaming with your friends beats one hour of watching thinspiration videos on TikTok or arguing with strangers on tumblr about who gets to call themselves a dyke. (Assuming your friends are nice to you.)

Sex is supposed to be fun. If you’re having sex and it isn’t fun, something is wrong – maybe you’re not ready to be having sex yet, maybe you’re having sex with the wrong people, maybe your partner needs to learn your body and preferences better, or maybe you’re having sex for the wrong reasons.

(Obligatory don’t do drugs BUT) if you’re going to do drugs, weed is safer than alcohol.

You may be tempted to assume that the people who treat you like you’re not cool enough to hang out with them are, in fact, the coolest people ever and ultimate arbiters of cool, and expend a lot of energy trying to win them over. I implore you to at least consider the possibility that your friends who actively want to hang out with you are exactly as cool as those people, and quite possibly cooler. 

If you barely eat anything all day and then binge at night, the reason you’re binging at night is because you barely ate all day. If you teach your body that it will not be fed for long periods of time, it will do its best to ensure, whenever you do eat, that you eat as much as possible. This is a feature, not a bug.

Sleep hygiene is unfortunately not bullshit.

“People experience social penalties for not being thin” is extremely true, but “no one will ever love you unless you’re thin” is extremely false.

The world is full of happy, successful, financially solvent adults who did not get into their first choice colleges.

[vir-tanadahl]

This is a scheduled post, so I’m not officially back. I have seriously debated stepping away from all of my vir tanadahl accounts and just signing off.

Honestly, when I made that post, I had no idea what to expect—but I definitely didn’t expect someone to tear my writing apart, color-code their complaints, and make a spectacle of everything they thought was wrong with it. It wasn’t just criticism. It was beyond criticism. It felt like a public shaming for not being a better writer or storyteller. 

…I’m not some aspiring author. I just write for fun. Fanfic was supposed to be an escape, a way to just write without stressing over world-building or getting every little detail perfect.

I write because I have ideas about the characters that I think are interesting…and that maybe others would find them interesting too.

I’m sure some people don’t like my writing—maybe they find it too cold or too structured—but for me, it feels soothing. It just makes sense to my brain. I know it’s not the best, and it’s definitely not something meant for legitimate publication.

I write that way because it’s what I’m used to. It’s the kind of writing I have to do every day. I have to document things professionally, where there’s an expectation for everything to be formal and structured. It’s just how my brain has been trained to put words together.

I obviously struggle with making things more concise when it comes to creative writing.

The point for fanfics relates back to community and giving back to the community. 

I don’t think people realize how much harm these call-out posts are doing to the trust between writers and readers. They’re creating an environment of doubt and fear. the exact opposite of what fosters creativity. Like having to worry about “big brother” watching over my shoulder. 

And, uh… man, that whole thing really messed with my head. I’ve tried to write since, but I just freeze up. All I can think about is those stupid color-coded highlights, like a giant, flashing reminder of how bad my writing is.

Honestly, I just end up feeling ashamed that my writing isn’t better, which is such a weird place to be. Even when my writing was objectively worse (seriously, some of my earliest stuff on Ao3 was rough), I never felt ashamed of it. Embarrassed, sure. But not shame.

I could see how much I had grown in just the first two years I started posting. And I could see how much I’ve grown from 2017/2018 to my writing now, even though I was no longer active in the fandom. I kept writing, just not creatively. I was am really proud at that growth.

I put so much time and effort into those fics. I tried to make sure every detail connected, that everything felt cohesive. I really, really tried.

But somehow, it wasn’t until that person decided to literally lay it all out, color-coded and everything, that I started feeling like my writing wasn’t just average—it was something to be ashamed about.

And I’m sure some of you are probably shouting at your screens right now, telling me not to let one person’s opinion get to me.

And you know what? You’re right—I shouldn’t. But shame is a powerful emotion, and once it settles in, it’s not so easy to shake.

Especially when it is so easily to color code all the flaws for the world to see. 

Ironically enough, that was the fanfic I was already struggling with. I hated that fic. I never told anyone because I knew how many people were enjoying it and looking forward to it. But the truth is, I was so insecure about it the whole time.

I’m pretty sure I kept telling people it was “challenging.” The reality is I was miserable writing that fic. I was struggling to figure out to describe everything.

And of course, that one person just had to find the one fic I was already insecure about—the one I was really struggling with—and then went out of their way to make it very clear that, yeah, I struggle with writing. (Tbh, I do find it is mildly amusing how that happened and have to laugh a little bit about it.)

I’m mostly feeling ashamed right now more than feeling scared, but I do oscillate between them. Which is what that person wanted me to feel, to feel shame, cause they thought AI wrote my stuff…so they treated it like shit…and nope. All me…

And I’m trying really hard not to let the shame win. That’s why I’m still going to stay off Tumblr and most of my other socials connected to vir tanadahl, for now, while I work through this barrier with my writing.

I’ll end this post with this: I’m pretty determined not to let shame win. Naming it, sharing it—it helps. Hopefully, in the next few weeks, I’ll be back… or at least back to posting my writing on Ao3.

In the meantime, feel free to read these:

This one is from the Legal Research Center from the University of San Diego titled ‘The Problems with AI Detectors: False Positives and False Negatives’ updated in January 2025.

This is an announcement from Vanderbilt University titled ‘Guidance on AI Detection and Why We’re Disabling Turnitin’s AI Detector’ from August 2023.

This one from Illinois State University titled ‘Why Don’t AI Detectors Work’ that was updated sometime in 2025 because there is a citation from a publication from 2025. 

I found this statement from Illinois State University website interesting:

A January 2025 study shows that AI detectors remain consistently inconsistent, sometimes getting close to accuracy but then delivering different scores on the exact same files in subsequent checks. 

Thanks to everyone who let me borrow their brave for a little bit. It really helped me find my own.

[multiheadcanons]

THE FUNNY SEX NUMBER

enjoy you nasty freaks. i SURE AS SHIT enjoyed writing it!

scout: scout is probably the most straight guy on the team. like 90% straight. there’s a couple of guys he’d be willing to suck off, but he really just doesn’t see a lot of dudes he absolutely HAS to have. sometimes he thinks about his team a little too much while he’s jerking himself off, but when he looks at them and he’s not sexually frustrated he doesn’t really feel anyway about them, at least not sexually. 5.5 inches, not impressively girthy. curves to the left. circumcised. casual masturbator. generally lazily stroking himself while his mind wanders. really only masturbates if he’s bored, or can’t sleep. this bostonian is a certified woman lover, he likes a lady with a looooot of curves. loves those women who look like the epitome of a woman. big tits, fat ass, soft belly, and you better have cellulite or don’t come talking to him. he likes his ladies all natural and unshaven. plastic surgery HATERR. truthfully, he doesn’t care what you do with your body. body positivity and all that shit. but he thinks that’s the biggest waste of money a lady could choose. if a woman tells him she’s had work done his libido immediately plummets into hell. he becomes the straight GBF. if he wanted to fuck plastic he’d get a pocket pussy. keep your liposuction to yourself, DOCTOR. he likes having a lot to hold. watching his hands sink into skin makes his dick twitch so bad. once got sucked off by someone with a tongue piercing and that was a religious experience for him; official piercing appreciator if you can do something with it. oral lover, though he’s not good at giving or receiving. he squirms, and his legs twitch. if you’re too good he’ll kick you off, sometimes he’ll literally kick you. at that point tie the man up. eyes roll to the back of his head once you get to the base. he can’t even make eye contact with you if you actively have his dick in your mouth. and he talks too much. he’s not very good at dirty talk, he’s just a stuttering fool. gets way too excited if you ask him to eat you out. if he doesn’t push you on the bed and drop to his knees he himself will fall on the bed and slap his cheeks. he’s prepping your seat. break his fucking nose. swipe his shit like a credit card. he gets so lost in the sauce. he’ll be focused for a moment, but it always devolves to him kissing and sucking on your clit. he’ll kiss your pussy more than he’ll actually kiss you. just so grateful for the opportunity to appreciate a woman every time he’s given one. busts quick by the time you’re done with foreplay and he actually slides into you. he really does his best to make sure you’re prepared, if he didn’t tongue fuck you to climax, but he cannot swing with the big boys. it’s okay, give him ten minutes and he’ll be ready to go. and if you don’t want to wait, his face is right there. take your seat! hates missionary, not because he doesn’t want to see your face, but because he just can’t get deep enough. wants to be able to reach between your bodies and spread you open further. likes you face down ass up so he can spread them cheeks and thrust. fucks like a rabbit. you could beg him to take it slow and you’ll get a solid three pumps before he just pistons into you. he likes it when his partners are vocal. it’s motivational. quiet cursing and low groans. breath hitches into a high pitched squeak as he cums. thick. coats your fingers and sticks them together. very acidic. not fun to swallow a whole load, but good to taste. spit it in his mouth though. see how that goes. falls asleep very quickly after sex, but is awake long enough to give you some aftercare, mainly cuddles. if he wakes up in the middle of the night y’all will have sex. sorry not sorry. he’ll either wake you up as he’s moving you into a preferred position, or you’ll wake up as he’s sliding into you. doesn’t like hickies. not enough meat on his bones to make a bite feel good, and he hates to say it but also not really: if he doesn’t like you his dick is perma-soft. it’s sucked back into his body. he can’t do casual sex because he has to know you a little bit to like you.

soldier: the second straightest guy on the team at like… 80% straight. he can’t help it if he’s looking his good friend demo the man in his eye and plants a fat one on him. and kissing your engineer friend— everyone should kiss their engineer friend, why would you not kiss your engineer friend? got the best damn lips since a bouquet of tulips, kiss your engineer friends, you’ll see. soldier is a stacked, jacked, and juiced man with an average libido. a large frame with some nice squish before you hit solid muscle, and he likes his sexual partners similar in stature. there’s nothing better to him than two people in peak physical condition getting it on. good seven inches. thick. circumcised. got a vein on the underside. masturbation is a tool he doesn’t use often. prefers a good old circlejerk with his teammates. a couple have said yes to him on that, we won’t say any names here. soldier is a man who likes to get to the point. there is not any foreplay unless you force foreplay. you get about a minute of making out and you better be ready to go. unless he really thinks you’re pretty. he can’t help but touch artwork. it’s not even that he doesn’t like it, he just doesn’t consider it because he himself doesn’t need it. he really doesn’t even want you to suck him off, he would like to put your ankles by your ears and go for it. but if you ask, he’ll oblige. don’t ask him if he needs it reciprocated, you will be harshly shut down. he hates receiving oral, he worries about teeth. he loves his penis very much, too much to let it be harmed. not the kind for gentle sex unless it’s a lazy morning and you wake him up with it. he is a quiet guy. he doesn’t go out of his way to dirty talk, per se, but as he makes what he thinks is casual conversation during sex, he’ll grunt out a remark here and there. how good you feel. how pretty you look. he’ll ask if it feels good or if you want another position. if he’s feeling particularly tender, he’ll slow down. pulling all the way out and then slowly pushing back in. he likes watching you squirm. he’s almost waiting for you to beg. will always cum inside of you unless you beg him to do it elsewhere. feels like a waste to him otherwise, but he will admit it does something to him to see you looking up, mouth open and tongue out to catch his load. it’s the only time he just wants to stick his dick in your mouth and start pumping. sometimes, if he’s feeling really nasty, he’ll slap you. not hard, but enough to make your cheeks pink. in the height of sex, he doesn’t really care about your reaction unless you start crying. another man with thick, sticky cum. doesn’t taste bad, actually. a little bitter. it almost leaves… a burn? like when you eat pineapples. you have to tell soldier what you want. if you want him to be gentle with you, let him know before he’s balls deep. if you want him to be rough and treat you like a sex doll, tell him before he’s hard. he will do what you like, he can do what you like, but if you don’t ask he’s not intuiting it from you. otherwise, as his sexual partner, you are there to spread your legs and invite him in. never minds giving a reacharound, but if you invite a vibrator to the party he gets hesitant. only while the things not on though. once he gets the thing on and located where you want it he’s enthralled by how much more lively you get. dick appreciator. he does believe in the school of thought of pretty penises and ugly penises. he will make fun of you if he thinks your dick is ugly. but will NEVER make fun of a lady. unintentionally a cruel master. does not bottom. will not bottom unless it’s your birthday or you’re terminally ill and it’s your dying wish. and don’t expect him to like… bleach his asshole. come fuck him like god intended you to. likes his partners unaltered. don’t shave. if you think he likes you enough don’t shower either. likes the smell of musk and sex together. post coitus is nice. he’ll wrap an arm around you, ask if you’re good. ask if you enjoyed it. then, and this is the important question, he’s gonna ask if you want more. say yes.

pyro: pyro doesn’t even think about sex. so anytime they have a sexual encounter with themselves they’re rediscovering how sex feels. it’s a confusing, exhausting process for them. sometimes their mind wanders. and they don’t really register why they feel the way they do. just that they’re angrier, twitchy, and the damn suit is so uncomfortable. and as they’re pulling their suit, trying to give themselves breathing room, they’ll brush their own hand against their hips and be filled with a heat. a very specific heat, that overtakes them from their stomach to their feet. and then they go “oh.” and they have to go take care of themselves and get their head back on straight. they do not last very long. they’re touched so rarely, they get a good couple of slow rotations of their hips and maybe a hesitant nipple rub in before they cum with a shudder, letting out surprised gasps before they lengthen into a satisfied groan. and they slump on their bed. they hate the mess it leaves. both on the bed and in their mind. in a way, they are absolutely snapped back to reality, because it’s like they can’t stop thinking about sex once they start. they’ll sit uncomfortably close to their teammates, close enough to feel the heat radiating off of them, and let their mind wander. sometimes they’ll just reach out and run their hands down their teammates bodies. there’s too much confusion and frankly, concern for the team to react in an aggressive or otherwise negative manner. they’ll lay on medic’s operating table and both of them can tell that the table is shaking from how badly pyro wants to be touched. and it’s so cold in there. they need that warmth. medic has never, and will never, interact with pyro sexually. it’s less of an ethics thing and more of a moral stance. he sees pyro as a friend, and can’t allow himself to be part of pyro stooping below the pits of hell for touch. he’s willing to commit crimes with pyro, and is that not a friend? refuses to ask about what’s under the mask on principle. if pyro was a little less desperate, and more sexually secure, and more mentally there, they would realize they want to hate fuck the enemy spy so bad it makes them look stupid. pyro goes out of their way, cornering the spy in dark, empty, small spaces. and stares. sometimes it gets them killed, yes. but if spy would wait, he would see that pyro just wants to look. get lost for a minute in his eyes. see the momentary fear before the plan begins to hatch in the frenchman’s head. maybe touch a little. maybe press against each other. maybe a little petting through their clothes. nobody can read spy better than pyro can. because pyro just hates him. pyro sees him everyday and cannot stop the distaste. they think so much about spy. it’s not enough to kill that man almost every day. they need that nasty frenchman carnally. lighting his cigarette is foreplay. switch royalty, relishes in being full and thoroughly enjoys filling others. doesn’t like being teased. whimpers, borderline sobs those first few thrusts, regardless of if they’re bottoming or topping. it just feels too good, it wipes their mind completely blank. pyro doesn’t last long. sex goes at their pace; if they say they’re done, get off. needs aftercare so bad. wants to be held and gently touched and told how well they did. told how good they are. sex opens the door for regret for pyro, and they don’t want to regret being open with people. they want to be open with people. dirty talk can’t even be dirty, you’ll freak them out and they’ll think what you’re saying is true. unless you’re spy, he can call them what he wants. only takes the mask off if they’re absolutely overheating. otherwise it stays on. will beg for you, if you ask. eager to please, eager to be pleased, and if you’re nice enough, everyone can have a good time. pyro just may not want the good times to end. eventually they will have to, so that pyro can focus on the field. but also, if you offer to meet them in a crawlspace, they won’t deny you. just give them a time so they can at least pretend to be an asset to the team.

demo: mmm, bisexual king i love you tavish finnegan degroot mwah mwah. will kiss, lick, suck and fuck anyone with a pulse. giant women, short kings, mediocre gender nonconformists, everyone can get in the ring with demo if they think they can handle it. hell, he’ll flirt with a hole in the ground if the crack is nice. no real type, be your version of sexy and he’ll eat it up, just pucker up and get close. he doesn’t bite... too hard. okay i lied, yes he does. loves biting, loves hickies. loves sucking on your bottom lip until it’s raw. foreplay is a full body experience. he’ll sweep you in his arms as he kisses you, he envelops your body with his own, he’ll swallow you whole if you let him. there is not a trace of skin he will leave untouched, and his body is hot, like fire. the cold air around you will shock you as he pulls away from your body. you can’t help but pull him back. the heat is intoxicating. it makes him laugh. he can’t help but poke at you. ask if you need him that badly. and if he really likes you, you’re his new favorite pastime. can and will spend hours holding you in his lap with one hand and fingering you with the other, watching where and how you twitch, what makes you sigh, what makes your breath catch in your throat. tells you how pretty you look as you squirm in his lap. very attentive lover. solid six and a half inches, uncut, no lean, clean shaven. big balls. has a prince albert. he likes the sound skin makes when it slaps together. his easy going attitude does lend itself to sex. when you’re ready for him, you just let him know how you want him and he will go until you ask for something else. one of the few men on earth who understands “just like that” means just like that and “right there” means right there. appreciative when you get on top, though. he’s got the energy to talk to you then, let you know how pretty you look, how grateful he is for you. he starts slurring his words when he’s close. eloquently stated compliments turn into brutish groans of how good you feel. how he can’t be deep enough inside you. how it’s just not enough for him. is kind enough to pull out and cum on himself. unless you ask otherwise. wipes it off with his fingers and puts them in your mouth. cum is watery, and tastes as such. maybe slightly salted water. decent aftercare. wipes you both off, makes sure you’re okay, and if it’s not nighttime, he’s going to continue about his day, in a notably less lax, more focused manner. he’ll see what he can get done today in his post nut clarity. willing to bottom if he’s feeling particularly pretty (spoiler alert tavish always feels particularly pretty), but he’s kind of a brat. snarky, almost scathing shit talker until you push inside of him. the yapping stops very fast as he opts for deep breaths and quiet curses, his breathing turning into pants as he clutches at the sheets. bossy. demands more. harder. deeper. fuck him like you’ve got some life in you. and he’s not riding so don’t ask. will tie you to the bed if you tell him to “do whatever”. probably likes feet. not enough to have a fetish but he likes a pretty, soft foot with a polish on the toes, he’ll kiss them. good at massages, if by massages you mean maybe five minutes of a truthfully nice massage before he can’t help but start palming himself through his pants. maybe not the smartest idea to ask him to give you a massage. unless that’s what you wanted. drunk sex is nasty. and rowdy. and wet. he can’t keep focus on anything other than how good you feel and how good he can make you feel, and he makes it known as he slurs in your ears about being his good little toy. he’ll push you to the limit when he’s drunk. heavy handler, digging his fingers into your sides to keep you in place so he can use you as he sees fit. it almost hurts but the man’s gifted where it matters, and that’s hitting your g spot. he’s got the motion of your ocean down. he’ll clean you up after. don’t worry. you might have fingerprint sized bruises after. he’ll ask if you want to shower off after the first few rounds. that is a trap. say yes.

heavy: i hope you’re a size queen. heavy is a guy with a lot of weight on his shoulders. he wants to lay back and let someone else take the reigns. ride him to your heart’s content. suck him off. do what you want. he’s just not doing any work to get you there. unless you beg for him. a satisfying eight inches. thick. circumcised. no notable veins. likes a good cockwarmer. enjoys just being inside someone. likes the heat. he’ll fall asleep like that. just pull you close to him and he’s done, he’s going beddy byes. he doesn’t really care if he cums or not, it takes him so long to get there that he gets bored before he gets close. frankly; he thought he didn’t care about sex because he has a lot of responsibilities. he thought that until he saw the medic. now he’s just pretty sure he’s kinda gay. because he does still appreciate a womanly figure, and he is aroused by women regularly, but he wants that german biblically and constantly. in the bed. on the floor. against the wall. on the battlefield. in the shower. in the car. on the operating table. behind the building. in the park. in the rain. missionary. doggy style. 69. butterfly. corkscrew. cowgirl. rocking horse. he wants that man wrapped in a bow. stuck in the washer. naked and asleep in his bed. in a nurse outfit. stockings included. cuffed bound and gagged. he wants to make him cry. he wants to overpower and overwhelm that man and die inside of him. he wants to fuck that man until he’s stupid. until all he can think of is how good he feels. he wants to make messes of their clothes and sheets and bodies. he wants to break those stupid fucking glasses. heavy’s killed medic before. he knows what it takes to crush him. he wants to know what it takes to break him. medic will talk to him and he’s gone. thinking of the best place he can go to take care of this poor man. the doctor asks if he’s still with him, he answers honestly: “no.” if he’s asked what he’s thinking about, it’s another simple answer: “you.” the doctor doesn’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. he’s touched nonetheless. heavy blinks and sees medic naked, writhing and panting underneath him in the fractions of the second his eyes are closed, and he opens them and the doctor is right there. clothed, if marginally concerned. he hears his name so clearly as the doctor pants it out to him, but as he turns to face him, it’s simply “heavy”. both the fantasy and the reality are comforting. they leave him satisfied. quiet during sex, if not actively asleep or feeling a little more domineering, and when he’s the latter he’s not… a particularly nice partner. he doesn’t yell, or hit you. but mercy is not given. he’ll go slow, if you beg for it. but if you’re just bitching he’ll say that. he’ll scoff as he presses into you, affirming that you can take it, you can be his good little doll and take it or you can be a disappointment and leave. frankly, getting heavy to do anything you want comes with a lot of begging and bargaining. he enjoys the psychological warfare, in a way. he is kind, but he doesn’t have to be. he doesn’t always want to be. he’ll eat you out, but you’re not allowed to cum. he’ll finger you, but only one finger. don’t get greedy. or do. see what he decides is a better compromise. he pulls hair. he can encompass an entire scalp in his hand, and he pulls back with careful control. significant eye contact. gentle biter. also a licker. he loves tasting the sweat off your skin, it’s addicting to him, and it’ll always lead into him biting down, running his tongue along the indentations his teeth make on your skin. if he’s more lax, gives ample warning when he’s close. if he’s feeling a little mean, you’ll just have to wait to hear his breathing change. cums with a long, warm sigh. doesn’t pull out. won’t pull out. pulls you closer and snuggles up. get comfortable. so warm. almost stiflingly so. with his arms draped over you and his breath on the back of your neck, there’s no escape from the heat he emanates. does not go for more than one round, but if he doesn’t cum then it’s all one round, right?

engineer: PUT THE HORSE IN THE STABLE, YOU DO NOT NEED IT FOR THIS RIDE. the ultimate fantasy he has, anytime he’s a little horny, is him walking into his workshop and seeing a siren on his workbench, or his bed, or on the floor, naked and natural, either reading a book or tinkering with something or watching tv, doesn’t matter, just that whoever it is is sexy and will invite him to come sit next to them, and won’t pull away when he gets handsy. likes belly piercings, he thinks they’re hot. is an ass man. loves squeezing hips and ass and thighs and watching his hands sink into the skin, he starts to drool. please ride him. please ride him on the bed, on the floor, in a chair. he does spank, and he will put you over his knee to do so. he’s aiming for bruises. a rough lover, but very kind with his words. knows how to use his accent to keep you engaged. likes to talk to you. almost doesn’t shut up. it would be worse if he didn’t sound so damn sexy. it’s almost condescending. like you’ve never had sex before. almost forces your hips to rock against his as he croons compliments about how well you’re doing; and asks whether he’s making you feel as good as you’re making him feel. kisses with tongue, and he will stick his entire tongue down your throat. he wants to taste you in your entirety. the man’s a maker, and that includes toys. did someone say sex machines? exhibitionist. ties you up, sets up a camera, turns the machine on, tells you to behave yourself and leaves. if he likes you he’ll give you a kiss before he goes to continue on his day. and if he really likes you he’ll tell someone else to check in on you. they don’t get to touch though. and don’t think you won’t get a say! if you make a very nice request on who comes to check in on you he’ll see if he can swing it. he’s not asking scout, and he thinks it would actually traumatize pyro, so pick one of the other six. it makes him feel better about himself having someone see you in such a vulnerable state. it’s a hard brag, he’s not gonna lie. you’re the treat he’s waiting for back in his workshop. loves coming back to you, ruined and exhausted. he’ll pull you off the machine, and clean you up, before you hear his overalls hit the floor. engie has a really nice dick. a filling 5.5 inches, circumcision done by an angel, thick. balls are picturesque. tip gets bright red. it just looks so good. you just want to suck it. it looks like it’ll explode if you don’t put it somewhere inside you in seconds of him getting hard. and he doesn’t say anything about it, but it almost looks painful. you’ll relieve him though. he loves teasing you with his dick too, he’s so mean. he makes you beg for it. taps it against your cheek; runs the tip, beading with precum, along your bottom lip. cum is very salty. almost not good. but are you gonna tell him that when he’s asking you to swallow? be his good baby and you’ll get rewarded. his major weakness is criers. he starts to feel so bad, it kills his mood. unless you’re crying because you want him that badly. then you’ve got him wrapped around your finger. you should beg for him to stay. he ultimately won’t, he really wants to, but he’ll allow himself to be a little late if it means you’ll stop crying. he won’t bully you as hard, even if he thinks you look cute with tears running down your cheeks and dick in your mouth. this man will tie you up in the basement and use you until he’s bored, and then he will leave you to die. as overwhelming as it all is, if you’re looking for longevity, sexual relationship wise, or you don’t want to get hooked only to wake up on a random tuesday and find he’s gone, permanently, force him to pump the brakes. or take charge yourself. he might be a freak but he’s not heartless, he might really like you! but if he just sees you as his sexual partner it’s harder to break through because he’s only focused with the mutual physical benefit, and not really thinking about forging a bond. and one more thing. get out before his post nut clarity hits or you’re not gonna get another opportunity to. he won’t be done with you.

medic: HERBERT LUDWIG!! medic sees sex with women like he sees recreational drugs. a very nice treat every once in a while, but he overdid it when he was young. it’s just not something he’s nearly as interested in anymore, unless the lady in question is one of a madly curious kind. he’s found more niche interests. harder drugs, so to say. reality shifting mind fucking eldritch edgelord looking for a well hung stag who can peer into the void and cum on its face, aftercare not wanted. literal edgelord, he won’t let you cum without punishment. favorite thing to say is “not yet.” he loves being overstimulated. he personally isn’t going to stop until he’s crying for you to give it a rest. but if you try to stop, he’s going to beg you to keep going. he’ll fall asleep on you if you last that long with him. he needs a safe word, desperately. yes, you may fuck him on the operating table. as long as you return the favor and let him operate. will stick his dick in a wound with a chuckle. unnecessarily loud. like a cat in heat. with all credit to the man, he tries to be quiet, but if you’re good… he can’t help it, okay. stick something in his mouth to shut him up or risk getting caught. be careful though, he bites. had a prince albert. an appreciable six inches. six and a quarter, if you ask him. thin. large veins on the underside. curves to the right. circumcised. he will choke you out on his cock. pushes you down until he can feel your throat spasming around the tip, and that gets him hot. don’t be scared to return the favor! choke him out! slap him! he likes it! you might give him a heart attack if you slap him out of the blue, maybe warn him first. or don’t! he won’t mind! too much! he has a fantasy of being collared and led around the field by a leash. it’s one of his favorite fantasies. it’s not even sexual, not in his mind anyway, but it always gets him off. the idea of heeling dutifully into open fire. without the choice to back out. not that he does anyway, but the idea that whoever’s leading him around has his life in their hands much more than he does theirs, and then they let him die makes his blood rush. he doesn’t even get to the part in his imagination where he gets actually hit with the bullets, he’s cum well before then. he’s going to wear his glasses and they’re going to fall off, learn to dodge them. picturesque back muscles and biceps. the bulk of the weight of the medigun is on his back and in his hands. he has got traps and delts for days, i just know it. the way they’d flex in dim lighting. i know he looks so good naked in a bed. asleep, awake and reading, half covered (or fully covered) by the comforter. he’s not laying in a bed naked and uncovered. get him a blanket. and put his cum in a brita. watery, and it tastes as such. slight tang. and i don’t care that he probably smells like bleach and blood and viscera. i just know the smell of the infirmary post sex is addicting, like sucking on a button battery. and the doctor will never deny a rimjob. he keeps clean. he’s a particularly boring top because topping bores him more often than it doesn’t, unless you’re suggesting something particularly intriguing. it’s not the worst thing in the world, it feels good, just not good enough to cum. it’s good foreplay, he’s engaged with it enough, he’s even notably nicer as a top! doting, playful, kind— if you could put it that way! but it’s because he’s getting bored. and he’s really hoping you’ll take note and return the favor, whatever that may mean to him. it’s hard to keep the doctor’s attention and interest, sexually. he’s a busy man, and he’s got a lot of things he can do that he has decided to put off to indulge himself. the second he thinks there’s something better to do he’s going to go do it, and he will be notably frustrated that he wasn’t satisfied on his end. so maybe don’t initiate unless you’re sure you can swing it with him in the way he needs it. he’s not the easiest man to be around when he’s frustrated. and if you’ve disappointed him once he’s not going to give you the opportunity to do so again.

sniper: depends on when you catch him, really. snipes is a man that can do it all if it’s asked of him. he will certainly try to give you everything you need. you want a night under the stars so good you’ll cry while he tells you about how the glow of the moon illuminates the tear stains on your face and makes you that much more beautiful that will leave you sore and emotionally depleted the next day while you look over and see he’s made you some coffee? he can do that. you want to get chased through the forest for thirty minutes up to nightfall (depending on how good you are at surviving) that he tossed you in until you get genuinely panicked that you’re lost and he gets bored watching you run around in circles (literally, you’re just making big circles and you’re not actually getting anywhere) and blows a tranq dart in your asscheek and you wake up bound and naked in the van? he can do that too. either way you get maybe one really good session a month with snipes. and it’s in that one session that lasts maybe 48-72 hours, that you need to take advantage of it and make him do everything you could ever want him to. otherwise, don’t bother him with anything too fancy during the day. suck him off, put your genitals in his face to lick on, call it a day. master of the quickie, talented with his hands. hard biter. gets him off faster. and the faster he can satisfy you both the faster he can get back to his own business that he’s got for the day. snipes is really busy for a guy who seemingly does nothing all day, but trust him, he’s got a full plate. do you think he actually pays attention to the no-compete clause? its amazing what an ad can do for business. i digress… tall guy, big hands, long dick. satisfying seven inches, but not girthy at all. left ball is bigger than the right, saggy and uncut. that man hasn’t worn underwear since he was ten. you know he’s freeballing it. whole thing gets real red and oozes precum. snipes does not take long to get going, to bust, nor recover for another round. he’s just not interested in the general messiness of sex. to him it is a thing done to procreate and if he’s not trying to procreate he shouldn’t be doing it. and most of the time, he’s not trying to procreate. does his best work irritated, but do not pester him too often. though, if you ask very nicely, he’ll let you suck him off in his nest. he cannot state enough how much he needs both hands to do his job. he can spare his dick. he can’t spare a hand or an eye to help you out. so get what you need then get off. but, when he’s feeling a little more tender and he can spare you a night, and he can tell you’re needing attention… he’ll show you a better time. will NEVER fuck in the base no matter how inclement the weather gets. he’d rather get frostbite. he’d rather get ticks. and you can theoretically be as loud as you want outside. at least if anyone hears you they won’t see you unless they’re creeping. speaking of which, he is also a creep. he’ll watch you through your bedroom window, hide under your bed, watch from a crack in your closet. if you let him, of course. he’s only vocal when he feels like he can be. which is not in a room. but when he’s in the van, or you’re out in the middle of nowhere, he’s begging for you. pleading for you. grabbing at whatever he can and burying his nose in the crook of your neck and using you as a personal inhaler, then he bites down. once he’s latched on, you’ve got a solid ten more thrusts out of him before he cums. and it’s pathetic. it shakes him, his voice will crack, and he will fall limp, holding you as close as he possibly can. even if he pulls out. he doesn’t care. you can both be dirty. and he lays there for a moment, taking you in in the darkness. if he doesn’t get lost in the post nut clarity, he’ll grab whatever fabric is closest and wipe you both off. then he’ll ask if he can grab you something to drink or anything to eat. but he’s not gone from the bed for more than a minute. he will come straight back with what you need and crawl back into the bed. he gets great sleep after sex.

spy: if spy knew that the only thing he had to do to get pyro off his back was fuck the thing until it got bored he would’ve done it years ago. sex is a tool that spy knows how to use, and thoroughly enjoys using on any and all sexes. a man who will not deny himself a good time, he has been an active member of many orgies, and found his stride in one on one, one on two, and one on three, and one on four settings. once you get to five he starts struggling to keep up alone. a lovely six inches, uncut and shaven with no notable veins. capable hands. talented tongue. that’s why he starts losing ground past four other sexual partners at a time. but for those lucky four, he’s a drug most are unwilling to quit on their own. king of gentle sex, god of a rough session; and the mask stays on either way. and he’ll admit— if there’s a glory hole he’s using it! almost physically unable to not stick his dick in random holes. spy does have a high libido, but he is never hurting for sex. almost like demo’s shit list, but for sex, spy has multiple pages of a roster of people’s full government name, pictures, current phone number, and preferred sexual acts included. he can comb through to find exactly what he’s looking for at any time, and it’s pretty obvious when he’s on the hunt for an addition to the list. he’s fun, he’s flirty, he’s smooth, obscenely smooth. smooth like the ice cream of a root beer float. sweet like one too. he’ll show you a great time before you’re even thinking of sex; then he springs it on you. he is not very… subtle, in that sense. it’s very quick from one of the best dates you’ve ever been on to “take off your clothes”. and you’ll do it too. loves a good ride, he will lay back and watch you, stifling groans and fighting his eyes closing just so he can watch himself enter and exit you. loves snowballing, he likes the taste of himself. he thinks if you don’t you have self esteem issues. he is just as pleased to be on top of a good ride. he’s willing to cut loose a little more if he bottoms, a little more open to making some noise. he’s an encouraging lover in that sense; he can be whatever you want as long as he’s in the mood for it. but he won’t contact you if he isn’t currently interested in your sexual style. and do not contact him, because he will contact you when he wants you. he is the only one in his life who is allowed to solicit others for sex. approaching him for sex first will get you laughed at, rejected, and you’ll probably be the topic over coffee for the next morning. he might still call you in a couple days, though. and adventurous as he may be, that does not make spy a cheater. but anything he does couldn’t be considered cheating because he’ll never get into a committed monogamous relationship again. he might try a polycule if the people in it are interesting and different enough. and he’s got an insane swinger radar. it’s a little funny, because he hates swingers. with a deep seeded vitriol. the second you approach him with the “my partner and i noticed you from across the bar and we really liked your vibe—” he will tell you to fuck off. aggressively. and he’s spot on, every time. he also will not cuckold, or be the bull in a cuckolding relationship. he is a big kinkshamer. both in and out of bed. even if he likes the kink you’re proposing, he’s gonna make you feel like a freak about it first. then he’s gonna do it. “you want to tie me up? that’s disgusting, that’s crass, here’s the rope, do it right.” “why would you be interested in my feet? i only just got a pedicure. don’t suck on my toes, i hate the sensation.” cum is thick but not sticky, with an after burn almost like liquor. fun to play with and to eat. he’ll even eat it out of you if he cums inside. sloppy eater. not because he’s bad, but because he loves oral. he gets a little lost in the sauce, and can and will be down there for a solid hour. deep, wet kisses, yes he does use tongue. it does something to him to be connected to you by a string of saliva. post coitus is nice. he’ll share a cigarette with you. then he has to go do his job.

[dol-dogboy]

My PCs as ~Love Interests~

Aka ‘Puppy wanted an excuse to draw his ocs in various levels of insanity, misery, and patheticness’

Percy 🔪

A fellow orphan and student, Percy starts off very standoffish and snappy with the PC, and must be pursued before he can start to warm up to them. Whether they remain friends or become something more is player determinant, but beware: taking him on as your love interest could have very dangerous consequences.

UNIQUE STAT: SADISM

Starts at 50%

Encouraging Percy’s violent tendencies raises it, while discouraging will lower it.

Is encouraged via actively cheering them on when they get into fights, and having visible reactions (re: crying, yelling out in pain) whenever they hurt you.

Is discouraged by telling him off for getting into fights and not giving him the satisfaction of a response whenever he lays his hands on you (something of which is determined by a Willpower check).

Low Sadism Percy will act more like a Regular Dude, but still somewhat cruel to the player— oftentimes grabbing you by the back of your clothes or gripping you by the arm to drag you places. Not as scary in this state, far more huffy and tsundere-ish towards you if you’re lovers (ESPECIALLY if he’s being poked fun at, it’s very amusing seeing how heated he can get over it).

High Sadism Percy is a complete nightmare, unless you’re someone who’s into being physically and sexually tortured. They will become obsessed with hurting you, even in casual settings: they’ll grip you by the arm randomly, digging their nails into your flesh until it stings, slam you against walls just to see you flinch, pinch you, scratch you, etc etc. Your life will be under constant attack by them, and that’s at High Love, if their sadism is high when they have Low Love though…

They won’t kill you. But they’ll get damn well close. Better hope you have some money saved up, because you’re about to be out of commission for a while!

EXTRAS:

Mostly found randomly in the school halls or in his room at the orphanage, though there is also a low chance to find him whilst infiltrating the docks or visiting the smuggler’s pub.

Hanging around low sadism Percy will raise your status at school, while hanging around high sadism Percy will lower your status at school.

Also scares off pervs whenever you hang around them, how aggressively they do it is determinant on their sadism level.

Requires incredibly high love and lust for Percy to bottom, requires high lust in general for him to even take off his pants before fucking you— watching you cry is enough sexual gratification for him most of the time.

Bowie 💐

Incredibly shy and emotional, Bowie starts off very jumpy around the PC, terrified of being seen as creepy or hurting them. As you interact with him more, he’ll lower his guard and start to see you as a comforting figure in his life; fussing over you when you get hurt and hiding behind you when things get rough, but that could change depending on your actions.

UNIQUE STAT: COWARDICE

Starts at 100%

Lowered by getting Bowie to stand up for himself and (try to) protect you, as well as relying on him whenever you do get traumatized and hurt.

Raised by babying and protecting him, as well as witnessing you get hurt when his cowardice is already high. If you rely wholly on yourself, then he will follow and lean on you as well.

High Cowardice Bowie will turn and run behind you whenever someone wants to get physical with him, seeing you as his sole protector (especially if you actively encourage that mentality). There are more downsides to this than good, however, since despite his size and strength, if you decide to use the [Scream] option in an encounter while Bowie is around…

“He stands, completely frozen in place, and places his face in his hands when you look his way. He’s visibly trembling. ++Stress +Trauma +Cowardice.”

Low Cowardice Bowie, on the other hand, will try his damndest to protect you— albeit he is shaking and crying while he’s doing it, but protecting you nonetheless. If anyone tries to accost you while he’s around, then he’ll tell them (meekly) to leave you alone, and if they push it then he’ll (meekly) break their jaw. He still defers to you for a lot of things, that’s just a part of who he is as a person after all, but he becomes bolder in the ways that really matter.

EXTRAS:

Can be found primarily at school and at the orphanage in either his room or tending to the garden, or in the woods foraging for seeds.

Talking with him in the garden or in the forest can help raise your Tending skill, to a certain point.

All encounters with him are consensual, and he is always submissive in them as well— so feel free to take the reins with him!

Damon 😈

An empty headed orphan who has severe memory issues, Damon initially barely processes the PCs existence, too far off in his own brain to commit your identity to memory. The more you talk with him, the more likely it is that he starts to recognize you when you interact with him, though the level of lucidity he experiences is player determinant.

UNIQUE STAT: AWARENESS

Starts at 0%

Increased by being open and honest with him about the world, stopping him from doing impulsive and dangerous things just because someone told him to, and encouraging him to think more about himself and who he is as a person.

Decreased by encouraging him to keep his eyes closed to the truth, going along with his self harming behaviors, and either by telling him to remain stupid WITH you, or to just start listening to everything you say rather than whatever instincts he may have.

A lot easier to increase Awareness than decrease it.

Low Awareness Damon is impulsive and stupid, doing things purely because others tell him to and he lives to please— though, you could get him to listen to only you if you manipulate him enough. If you wrap him around your finger enough you could probably tell him to jump off a building and he’d do a flip for you. He’ll throw himself into encounters to help you, get you money, whatever you want, all to his own detriment. If you don’t have a conscious then really there are no downsides to this!

High Awareness Damon is still a very silly guy that likes to have as much fun as he can, but now there’s a level of lucidity to him that makes him seem more sure of himself. He fights with a purpose, he’ll calmly tell people that approach him with ill intent to fuck off, he still has the loyalty of a dog but without the blindness that he had previously. But there’s also more of a melancholy to him… and sometimes he seems more apprehensive to get close to you.

EXTRAS:

Found at school sharing a science class with the pc, in his room at the orphanage, at the brothel, or occasionally at the strip club (high awareness only). There is also a very low chance to find him at the hookah parlor some nights.

Hanging around Damon, or mentioning his name via the [Plead] or [Demand] options during encounters will increase status.

Can initiate consensual encounters with him even if you haven’t claimed him as a love interest, he’s down to fuck anywhere you can find him.

Pixel art close ups as a bonus because they’re so cuteeeeeee <3

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Six: no good deed ever goes unpunished

tw: violence, non-con

Small chunks of salt stick to the tips of Simon’s fingers, dusting them like fresh snow. You were right—a simple order of chips really isn’t enough to keep him going throughout the night. 

If anything, the saltiness makes him hungrier. It pummels his stomach until it’s grumbling at an annoying frequency, and it doesn’t do much to help the dryness in his mouth either. He would have tried to order something if it wasn’t damn near impossible to get anyone to deliver to the club, and god forbid John Price actually install a proper kitchen. But there would be no use for any sort of kitchen in a place like that, as it’s not good food that makes people swarm to Terminus like brainwashed zombies. It’s the booze. The music. A quickie in the stall. 

Shady activities in an alleyway. 

Simon huffs as he tosses the empty chip container in the small bin that sits in the corner of the surveillance room. Monitors upon monitors line the wall on the far side of the room, illuminating the concrete floor with a grey glow as faint music pulses through the air. He hates this room. Small, stuffy, and overheating with the computers and servers; he’d rather be out in the bitter November winter right about now. He’s out of luck tonight, because after nearly two weeks, Johnny’s research has finally bore fruit. 

About time, too. All Simon has been able to think about for the last few days has been you. Sometimes when he closes his eyes, he can still see the outline of your body. It’s ingrained in his mind. He still sees your limp, exhausted form as you rested in the conversation pit—too overwhelmed to keep conscious. It follows him like a bad dream. He doesn’t know why you haunt him so terribly. Perhaps he has Aelin to blame; she knows how he never likes leaving a job half done. 

Or maybe it’s because you’re so… peculiar. For a woman he can only describe as being a skittish cat, you’ve suddenly melted into some other version of yourself. Your dislike of his proximity to you is obvious. Short words, gauche exchanges; yet you have this impulsive need to constantly get even with him, like you’re trying to sweep up the breadcrumbs that lead to your door lest he get hungry and follow you home. 

However, when he visited you a few days ago to check on your hands—as promised—you seemed to be a whole new person. Well, not entirely. If you were the world’s most skittish cat before, you have now become the feral stray that would maybe eat out of the palm of his hand if he doesn’t look at you while you do it. He asked you questions and you responded with something more than simple words or an uneasy, anxiety induced joke. 

I’m… glad that you’re not doing this just for me.

He still wonders what you meant by that. 

“Hey, you paying attention?” Johnny whines. 

Simon blinks the glaze out of his eyes—one which carries a now greenish-yellow hue around his cheekbone—and pushes the thought of you out of his mind as his attention fully settles on the monitors in front of him. A chair squeaks as Johnny settles back against the worn, faux leather. He’s already got everything loaded up for whatever presentation he’s about to give. 

“Waitin’ on you, Johnny,” he playfully retorts. 

“Right,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “So, I’ve been trying to do some research on your dance partner here, and he’s a slippery fucker. Whoever he is, he’s good at covering his tracks up. At least through the methods I use to find people. Nothing on the media or anything like that. Might as well not exist at all in the tech world.” 

A hum rumbles in Simon’s throat as he crosses his arms. “You drag me in here just to tell me you found nothing?” 

Johnny’s neck cranes to the side where he then looks up at him with a wide smirk. “Come on, Riley. When have I ever wasted your time?” 

Both men turn their attention back to the monitor as Johnny begins to rewind through the footage from a few days ago—the day Simon found you in the alley. Everything happens fast as he speeds through the film. Bodies dart across view like ants, and there’s a comedic speed up cars driving along the road as they slice across the monitor like knives. Static streaks across the screen as the footage warps before it suddenly pauses again. 

“Since I wasn’t able to find anything on this guy, I decided to sleuth through the footage again, and I found something a little odd about this bloke here,” Johnny explains as he points to a male figure. Whoever it is, they’re faced away from the camera with their hands shoved deep into their pockets to stave off the cold. “He enters the alley before your pal does…” 

The video plays at normal speed, and the faceless man vanishes behind the brick corner of the building a few meters down, just as Johnny described. He fast forwards, and everything plays at triple speed. Simon’s seen it all before. The man who accosted you enters the alleyway, and then you unfortunately come across him a bit later, but then something happens that he hadn’t bothered to pay attention to before. 

The man Johnny pointed out leaves the alley, this time facing the camera. He’s fiddling with something in his hands, and upon closer inspection, Simon’s able to tell it’s a small wad of cash. It’s quickly stowed away in his pocket, and that’s where Johnny pauses the video. 

“He leaves as soon as Chip arrives, shoving a couple quid into his pocket like he struck a deal,” Johnny concludes. 

Tense fingers grip the back of the office chair as Simon leans over Johnny’s shoulder, squinting at the face on the screen. He scrutinizes every detail possible through the fuzzy footage, and his jaw flexes as he huffs. 

Square jaw, visible stubble, and eyes just as shifty as his character. 

“He looks familiar,” Simon mutters. 

“He oughta. Fucker works here.” 

A rancid taste floods the back of Simon’s throat at that revelation, and his fingers tense so greatly that the imitation leather of the chair threatens to crack beneath his grip. Fury rises in the dark irises of his eyes as he leans back and grumbles. It seems like such a simple detail to miss. Something that he should have caught the other night, even in his sleep deprived state. If he had, he would have been several leaps closer to the real issue ages ago. 

“Who is he?” Simon demands. 

“Marcel Wylder,” Johnny answers as he twists in his chair to face him. “Works part time as one of the bartenders in the VIP lounge. Only really works on the weekends, and according to the floor manager, he’s a good kid. Twenty three years old. Always shows up on time, things of that sort.” 

“Good kids don’t meddle with men who like to scare women in alleyways,” Simon retorts. 

Johnny shrugs. “Guess we all have our dark sides… some are darker than others.” 

It takes a few more moments for Simon to finally get himself to look away from the screen, and his eyes land on Johnny with a malice not meant for him. He’s not quite sure why this revelation angers him so. The sting of failure pricks at his skin too violently for him to ignore it. 

“He here tonight?” he asks. 

“Yeah, he’s working on the second floor right now. Or, at least that’s where he was last, according to the cameras,” Johnny answers. He pauses to lick his lips and tilt his head. “You’re brewing something in that head of yours. I can tell. None of it looks too cheerful.” 

Swarthy eyes glare back at the monitor as Simon commits this new face and name to memory. Marcel Wylder. Twenty three. Square jaw. Stubble. Thin eyes. 

“Thanks for the intel, Johnny,” is all Simon says as he turns on his heels and walks towards the exit. 

A high pitched squeak echoes off the dull white walls of the room as Johnny excitedly watches him leave. All he can make out are a straight set of shoulders, clenched fists, and an aura that demands blood. 

“Go easy on the kid!” Johnny calls after him—his voice is too saccharine to truly mean it. 

There are very rarely any times when Simon Riley feels like a savior, but he can’t deny the fact that he feels like Moses when he’s walking through Terminus. Eyes snap to him, wary of the large brute attempting to slice through the club like a dull axe. All it takes is a single glance or a firm hand on someone’s shoulder and the mass of pulsing bodies splits open for him like the Red Sea. 

This trend continues as he jogs up the wrought iron spiral staircase that leads up to the second floor, and his path to Marcel is highlighted by the mob of patrons crowding the bar. He looks nicer tonight than he did the previous night, and his square jaw almost appears defined now that he’s shaved that fuzz off of his face. Pristine dress clothes mark him as a perfect employee as he quickly fills orders and stuffs tips in his pocket all with a thankful smile. Doesn’t look like he’s doing half bad for himself, considering there’s a near topless woman serving booze next to him. 

“Marcel!” 

Simon’s voice booms louder than the bass of the music and is so sharp all other sounds nearly seem to cease for a moment. That pathetic sod glances up from his work like a schoolboy being scolded, and his face grows pallid. All it takes is a simple gesture of his fore and middle fingers to get the man to slip from behind the bar and join him in the crowd. 

He leads Marcel out behind the building like a lamb to slaughter. Just like a good offering, he’s quiet. Hardly asks anything besides is everything alright? to which Simon doesn’t respond. Biting wind attempts to tear through the formidable fabric of Simon’s clothes, but it seems to really do a number on the kid. Hardly even ten seconds out the door and the poor boy is wrapping his arms around himself and trying hard not to shiver, lest he look pathetic in front of the head of security. 

A flickering halogen light is the only source of illumination in the shady alley, and even in the bleakness of winter the garbage spoils and festers with a stomach-churning odor. Marcel stands cornered with his back to the wall, and he watches with trepidation as Simon’s hand dives into his pocket. Relief doesn’t fill his face until his eyes catch sight of a pack of cigarettes. 

The cancer-stick sits at home between Simon’s lips as he lights it and puffs out a steady stream of smoke until it’s well lit. A gentle breeze whisks it away into the air where it quickly dissipates among the smog smothered stars. Once he’s satisfied, he holds the pack out toward Marcel. 

“You smoke?” he asks. 

“Yes sir,” Marcel answers. 

Simon shakes the pack, prompting him to take one, and a smile pulls at the boy’s lips. “Cheers.” 

As Marcel’s trembling hands work on igniting the lighter, Simon takes a better look at him. There’s hardly a single scar on him, and his hands are much too soft to truly be a part of any violent syndicate. Still, anyone can be a mole, even if they’re a smooth faced kid. 

“What do you do outside of work?” Simon asks. It’s kind enough. Simple, polite conversation—but there’s nothing civil about the look in his eyes as he chews on the filter of his cigarette. 

“School, mostly,” Marcel replies. 

Simon hums. “Uni?”

“Greenwich.” 

“Smart.” 

Another exhale of smoke dances between Simon’s lips as he huffs, dark eyes still trained on Marcel. He’s damn near shivering out of his skin as the black fabric of his uniform is designed to whisk away sweat and keep you cool in warm, humid temperatures. No matter; the boy can warm up soon enough. Simon intends for this interaction to be quick. 

“Since you’re a smart kid, you’ll do well to be truthful with me then, yeah?” Simon prompts as he flicks a bit of ash onto the ground. “That bloke you met up with the other night? Who is he?” 

Trembling muscles suddenly freeze, and the cigarette seems stuck against Marcel's lips. There’s no exhale of smoke. The embers don’t brighten at the tip to show he’s inhaling. There’s nothing. 

“Bloke?” he repeats. 

“The fucker you met up with in the alley a week or two ago,” Simon snaps, already impatient. 

Marcel jumps and the cigarette falls free from between his lips and fingers. It sputters and whines on the ground, where the boy quickly puts it out of its misery by stomping on the embers until they’re no longer glowing. 

“Right, erm, Andrei I think it was.” 

“Andrei who?” 

“I dunno. I just know him as Andrei. Honest,” Marcel insists. 

“What did he want?” Simon presses. 

“Well, he had this picture of someone. Some bitch he didn’t want hanging around here I suppose. Was asking me questions about her and stuff,” Marcel replies earnestly. 

A bright pink dusts the tips of Simon’s ears. The muscles in his jaw begin to flex. “What did she look like?” 

“She was dressed mostly in black, kind of similar to our serving uniforms. It looked like it was taken through the window of some restaurant. I don’t know which one it was. I swear!” 

Sapori. 

Teeth nearly cut through the filter of his cigarette as Simon’s jaw clenches. He rips the thing out of his mouth and tosses it on the ground, not even bothering to stomp it out. This man—this Andrei—is getting too close to you for comfort. He thinks back to the way you reacted in the alley; how petrified you were. A terrible thought plagues his mind as he wonders what has been done to you to get you to fear someone so terribly. 

Simon doesn’t like where his mind is wandering. 

“What questions did he ask about her?” Simon continues. 

“Dunno, just regular stuff? I suppose? He asked when she was here and who she was with. Things like that,” Marcel replies. 

Simon raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I told him the truth. About how she was here on Halloween. I mean, I didn’t see much of her so there wasn’t a lot I could tell him. Honest. I think he was mostly looking for confirmation that she was here at all. He didn’t ask for anything else after that, and he sent me on my way.” 

Acid eats away at Simon’s stomach. The chips he devoured before this seem to have a hard time settling with the heavy ire disrupting his mood. Dense feet scrape against the ground as he takes a few steps closer to Marcel, who puts his hands up in defense as if that’s going to do anything against the rating storm barreling straight for him. 

“That’s it, that’s everything, honest! I swear!” he pleads. 

“I know. I believe you,” Simon says through gritted teeth. 

Worn knuckles crash into the tense flesh just underneath Marcel’s sternum, stealing the very breath from his lungs. He sputters miserably as his back crashes against the brick wall behind him, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t breathe. A deep purple hue stains his face as his body begins to jolt and spasm uncontrollably. It’s impossible to keep himself upright with the wind knocked out of him—diaphragm screaming in protest—he slowly slides onto the ground with his hands over his stomach like he’s trying to stop blood flowing through a wound. 

“You’re a smart boy, so listen close,” Simon says as he crouches to Marcel’s new height. He rubs at his sore fist, but his eyes don’t stray even an inch from his target. “Be careful who you call a bitch ‘round here, because if I ever hear you refer to a woman like that again, I’ll knock your goddamn teeth out like the sorry sod you are, ya hear?” 

Still sputtering and heaving, Marcel nods. 

“Good. Now, that woman Andrei showed you? Forget her. She doesn’t exist to you. If he comes ‘round here askin’ about her, you tell him you haven’t seen her, because you won’t. You’ve got nothin’ for him, yeah? Nod.” Simon’s tone is too severe to deny—Marcel complies easily. “If anyone ever starts askin’ about any of our patrons or workers, you bring that shit right to me. Don’t you ever go ‘round behind my fuckin’ back again. You think there’s anything that happens here that I don’t know about? Huh?” 

After an eternity of struggle, Marcel is finally able to get a good gasp in, and a few subsequent breaths after that. That bright purple begins to fade from the paleness of his face, and he quivers and shakes his head. 

“N-No sir,” he stutters. “Sor-ry…” 

“Good. Don’t you ever fuckin’ forget that.” 

Simon pushes himself up to his feet and looks down at Marcel as he writhes and chokes on his achy diaphragm. He haphazardly digs around his pocket for his pack of smokes before he retrieves a single cigarette and tosses it toward the pathetic lump of a man at his feet. It bounces on the slimy ground before rolling to a stop with specks of dirt sticking to the filter—Simon’s half-hearted attempt at an apology. 

“Take a breather. Have yourself another smoke, then get back to work,” he orders. He turns to leave, but only gets a few steps away before he pauses. A stiff finger points at Marcel. “Keep in mind, that's not even half of what I’ve got, yeah?” 

Marcel’s pathetic response is drowned out by the uproar of music that fills Simon’s ears as he returns back inside of the club. A thick wall of heat melts the frost off of his skin as his brooding figure cuts through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. His blood continues to boil with clenched fists and heavy breaths. It’s all consuming. Swallowing him whole. Simon doesn’t like being angry. He feels too much like his father, and sometimes he fears that he looks like him, too. 

Violent, angry, sinister—his intimidating build and threatening demeanor have always been something he’s tried to rage against. A stereotype he’s been attempting to break. Yet now that he’s gotten one step closer to uncovering the monsters hiding in your shadows, he’s grateful for it. For once, it’s a tool he can use to his advantage. Something he can use to help you. 

Except, while Simon is busy taking baby steps through this web of lies, you’re already in the maw of the beast. 

Frayed string tangles around your fingers as trembling hands attempt to keep themselves busy with a solo game of cat’s cradle. It’s already the 25th again, and just like every other month, you’re in perfect position. Sitting properly on a bench with a wad of cash tucked neatly into the envelope that sits inconspicuously on your lap. This is a dance you know well. A dance you don’t think you’ll ever be free from. 

Washers and dryers hum around you and clash terribly with the ringing of your ears and the violent pounding of your heart. Trepidation plagues you worse than it usually does on your due date. Every other month is predictable. Something you have memorised. But this month? You don’t know how Marco is going to react about what Simon did to Andrei. 

You keep going through possibilities in your mind. Things you need to say to keep him off of Simon’s trail. Ways to apologize to keep him from getting upset. You’ve gone through every option your mind can come up with, yet it doesn’t feel like enough. There’s something you’re still missing. 

But you’ve run out of time. 

Frosty air slices through the warmth of the laundromat and you try your best not to shiver. Not that it does you any good—you’re already shaking. Marco’s cologne drifts along the air, mixing in dissonance with the fragrance of soap and fabric softener. Green eyes scan the small room as he takes note of the single mom folding clothes in the back of the building as her young son watches videos on her phone. It should be comforting to know that you’re not alone—but you’ve learned that you’re never safe. Horror does not wait for eyes to turn away before sinking teeth into flesh. 

Your attention stays firmly on your hands as Marco waltzes up and makes himself at home next to you on the bench. The scent of him scorches your nose as his arm wraps around your shoulders. You try not to jump as he involuntarily pulls you closer to him, and you find your fingers clamping down hard on the string in your hands. 

“Long time, no see,” he greets. 

He’s more cordial than he usually is, and that terrifies you. His thumb rubs at your arm through the fabric of your jumper and you feel your heart leap into your throat. He knows. He knows, and you’re about to pay for it. 

“Did you hear about our good friend, Andrei? Got scuffed up pretty bad the other week,” Marco prompts. 

You swallow your heart down your throat and back into your chest. “Is he alright?” 

“Define alright,” he hums. Long legs spread apart and bump into your thigh, crowding you further like he’s trying to lock you in a cage of your own flesh. “Busted lip, broken nose. His face is so goddamn swollen he sounds like he’s got a cold.” 

Images of Andrei’s wounded face sear your mind. Bright red blood trickling down his lips, an appalled expression on his face as if he had never met anyone capable of putting him in his place before. You should have known then that you wouldn’t walk away unscathed from something like that. Simon’s protection can only reach so far. 

“What were you even doing there, anyway? At Terminus?” Marco then asks. 

“I was delivering food,” you answer truthfully. 

“Oh, you’re a delivery driver now? I thought you were a waitress,” he digs. 

“Hostess…” you correct. 

“Who were you delivering to?”

“My friend… her husband owns the club and she was hungry… so… I, well…” you stumble over your lie. 

Firm fingers dig into your arm as Marco pulls you closer. You try to keep your bottom lip from trembling. “Ah, right. John fucking Price.” 

Shocked, you finally bring yourself to look at him. There’s faint amusement on his face as he stares at the washers in front of him. A mixture of soapy water and colorful clothes dance around in the machine as it gently spins and agitates the fabric. 

“You know him?” you venture to ask. 

A smirk pulls on his lips as he turns his attention to you, and your blood screams at how close his face is to yours. “Don’t worry about that, babe.” 

His eyes capture yours in a way that makes it impossible to look away—like you’re an unfortunate deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car. He wanders down. Down, down, down until he catches sight of the unmarked envelope on your thighs. He grabs it and isn’t at all courteous about where his fingers brush in the process. 

“How did that guy even know you were in that alley? That prick who fought with Andrei?” Marco ponders. 

As he waits for your response, he hits the envelope against the top of your thighs as if he’s bored. Tap, tap, tap. Each time it touches you, you feel your stomach twist. 

“I, uhm, asked the same thing. Said he heard us like… talking and… he thought I needed help. Guess he was the bouncer outside of the VIP entrance. M-My friend said he’s the head of security,” you reply, weaving truth and lies seamlessly together. 

“Yeah, I know who the bastard is,” Marco mutters in reply. 

Something lugubrious tingles up your spine as you have the slight urge to press him for an explanation. You bite that urge away as he folds up the envelope and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans, not even bothering to count the cash. Your gaze finally breaks away from him as you glance back down at your hands. They’re almost fully healed—nothng but faint scars and scabs now. You untangle the string from your fingers as you begin to wind it up, hopeful that he’ll leave soon after this interrogation. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure it was all one big misunderstanding. No use in getting worked up over it, babe,” he sighs. A pause follows his words, one that’s interrupted by the quiet giggling of the child still playing on his mother’s phone as she folds clothes somewhere to your right. “Still, some damage was done. Andrei’s been an annoying fuck ever since the altercation. As much as I would love to let you get off easy, it doesn’t really look too good if I’m letting some sweet, pretty thing walk all over me, now does it?”

Your eyes flutter shut as he speaks, and you attempt to mentally prepare yourself for whatever blow he’s about to deal. Of course it was naive to think you’d get out of this easily. Really, you were prepared to be hurt in some type of way from the moment you stepped foot in the laundromat. All you wanted to do was throw Marco off of Simon’s trail—to not drag someone innocent into this mess—and though it feels like you’ve succeeded for now, you’re not quite sure you even accomplished that much. 

“It doesn’t,” you pitifully agree.

Marco smirks. “Because of that, your monthly payments will be increased by five hundred starting next month. That ought to be enough.”

The very blood coursing through your veins turns to ice, and tears blur your vision as you try to make sense of his words. Five hundred. A brutal panic wreaks havoc in your chest. You want to sob, and scream, and thrash with frustration but his hand is still on your arm, keeping you chained to him. Gluttonous fingers stain your skin and his leg is still pressed against yours, and you can feel the disgusting warmth of his body and you can’t—you can’t. You want to rage, but you’re cornered and trapped, and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

“B-But that’s… that’s fifteen hundred a month, I… I’ve hardly- I can’t make that.” 

You’re crying now, and you hate it. You hate how weak and pathetic you are. You hate how you have no other choice but to be this way—malluable like molten metal and just as brittle. White hot tears cook your cheeks as they travel down your face, and you’re trying your best not to hiccup. Suddenly, you’re a kid all over again. Fawning, trying not to flinch as his hand reaches for your jaw to turn your face to him. His breath smells minty as it fans across the wet streaks on your face—he’s so close you can almost taste the menthol. There’s a small frown on his lips, something that almost looks sincere. 

Almost. His eyes are too hungry for it to be real. 

“Look at you,” he shushes. One hand moves up to cup your cheek while the other stays steady and firm around your shoulders. His thumb caresses your face, catching the briny tears and pushing them to the side. “Getting all upset over this? If it means that much to you, we can always negotiate lower, babe.” 

It takes an eternity for his lips to meet yours, and once they do, everything freezes. The only thing you can comprehend is the ringing in your ears and the warm shame on your skin. It’s degrading. Humiliating. A terrible reminder that you’ve never really belonged to yourself—that you’ve never belonged to anyone or anything but him. 

Things get worse when his tongue pushes past your lips. Everything becomes overwhelming—the washers and dryers, the video on that damn phone, Marco’s slight moan against your skin. You make a pitiful attempt to fight back by pressing your hands on his chest, but you’re met with harsh resistance and rigid muscle. He pulls you closer, holding you tight like a coiling snake. 

Something in you demands blood. You feel obligated to bite down, to sink your teeth into his tongue until the mint in your mouth is replaced with iron and copper. When you were a kid, your dad had taught you how to throw a punch. You wonder what he would think if he saw you like this. Sniveling and too afraid to fight back. 

Once he’s had his fill of your fear, Marco pulls away, but you still can’t breathe. He continues to wipe more tears from your face as if he can’t comprehend why they’re flowing in the first place. 

“For that, we’ll drop it down to only two fifty,” he whispers. He places another kiss against your lips—something chaste and quick. “Unless… you wanna take me up on that deal?” 

“N-No,” you stutter, then sniff. “I’ll get you the money.” 

Humming, Marco finally releases you as he stands to his feet. He looks down at you with a self-satisfied smirk as he gently kicks the side of your foot. “See you next month, babe.” 

Marco leaves just how he arrived—with a gust of bitter, algid wind. He’s taken something from you that you won’t get back, and it’s left you feeling empty on that bench. So void, so barren of anything that you can’t even bring yourself to move. All you can do is sit there and curse yourself for being just as worthless now as you were the day when you first got yourself stuck in this mess. 

Shuffling sounds on your right, and you nearly jump out of your skin as you look up at the source. It’s that lady and her son. You’d nearly forgotten about them. A small basket of neatly folded clothes sits on her hip as she holds the boy’s hand to lead him out of the laundromat. Her face twists with disgust, like she can smell every single sin that’s ever been forced upon you. As if you are at fault for the grotesque display of affection you were made to endure. 

As if the gaping hole in your chest is your fault. 

As she exits, you try not to think about why she didn’t help you. If anything, you’re grateful for it. No more favors. No random acts of kindness. It never turns out well. No good deed ever goes unpunished. 

Instead, you rise to your feet a few minutes later once you’re able to stitch yourself back together. Wiping your face clean, you brave the cold streets of London as you take the transit back home. You swear to yourself that the moment you step foot in your apartment, you’ll rinse your mouth clean until even the thought of Marco is gone. Then, you’ll call Sapori to see if you can pick up an extra shift.

This is how your life was always going to go—you’ve known this whole time. Pathetically slow, time wasted away at work trying to scrounge up enough cash to keep yourself alive. To pay for the right to continue to draw breath. You think of Marco’s scheming words—his terrible offer that he keeps attempting to shove down your throat—and you try not to squirm in your seat on the bus. 

Maybe one day you won’t have any choice but to endure his whims, but for now you’re content on working until your hands bleed.

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[sturniololuvz]

haha it would be so okay if you did freaky stuff. anyway for now do you think you could do a fic where y/n their sister is kinda in a bad mood because of her period and the triplets keep like joking and messing with her until they realize why shes so mad and they apologize. also thanks for being so active you're the best

lol! okayy!

“Oh… That Makes Sense”

Sturniolos x sister

Y/N had been in a terrible mood all day. Everything annoyed her—the way Nick kept tapping his fingers on the table, the way Matt chewed too loudly, and especially the way Chris wouldn’t stop throwing random objects at her just to get a reaction.

She sat on the couch, arms crossed, eyes glued to her phone, trying to block out the sound of her brothers goofing off in the kitchen. They were being extra obnoxious today, and she had zero patience for it.

“Yo, Y/N, catch!” Chris suddenly called, tossing a balled-up sock at her head.

She barely flinched, just turned to glare at him. “Chris, I swear to God—”

“Woahhh, relax,” he laughed. “Why you so grumpy today?”

“Maybe she didn’t get enough sleep,” Matt suggested, smirking.

“Or maybe she forgot to eat,” Nick added. “You get all cranky when you’re hungry.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and groaned. “Oh my God, can you three just shut up for like five seconds? You are so annoying.”

“Damn,” Chris muttered, exchanging looks with Matt and Nick. “Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

Y/N had reached her breaking point. “I AM ON MY PERIOD, OKAY?!” she shouted, standing up.

The room went dead silent. The triplets all stared at her, eyes wide like deer caught in headlights.

“Oh,” Nick finally said, blinking.

Chris slowly nodded. “That… makes sense.”

Matt winced. “Yeah, okay, that explains a lot.”

Y/N let out a frustrated sigh and flopped back onto the couch, rubbing her temples. “You guys have been annoying me all day, and I already feel like crap. Just leave me alone for five minutes, please.”

There was another beat of silence before the triplets suddenly scrambled into action.

“Do you want a heating pad?” Nick asked. “I think Mom has one in the bathroom.”

Chris nodded. “Or chocolate. We have chocolate, right? Matt, go get some.”

“Right, right! And do you need pain meds? I can grab those too,” Matt offered.

Y/N blinked, a little taken aback by their sudden shift in attitude. She sighed but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. “Okay… that would actually be nice.”

Within minutes, she was wrapped in a blanket, heating pad on her stomach, chocolate in one hand, and water in the other.

Chris sat beside her, looking sheepish. “Sorry for messing with you earlier.”

“Yeah,” Nick added. “We didn’t know.”

Matt ruffled her hair lightly. “We still love you, even when you’re scary.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but laughed. “Yeah, yeah, I love you idiots too.”

[faeriefully]

my dad not understanding how hormones can affect your sleep schedule is always an interesting conversation

[ratcandy]

no professor you don’t understand I was up half the night because I was watching this spider make its web. No no hang on you’re not understanding it’s a net casting spider I wanted to see it make its net. Professor. Professor listen

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

If you’re so disillusioned with who Taylor is as a person and believes she’s changed for the worse, why are you still here as a fan? If you believe her “activism” isn’t up to your standards, are tired of her not using her platform, see her as an uncaring and callous billionaire, why are you still here and engaging in fan spaces if you’re no longer enjoying her and her work? Just disengaging completely if that’s the case; find something or someone else to pour your time and energy into.

[ballsbalb]

i’m never one to tell people how to live their lives but i will say being an openly lesbian woman and playing for a team owned by a nation state that would jail you (with the possibility of execution) for being openly gay in said nation state is most certainly. a choice