#I think i posted it here before then deleted it

[thatonereallyconfusedbitch]

Usually not political on my blog, but I couldn’t just scroll past this.

In Germany, in the tenth grade you visit Berlin to see the affects of the Second World War and learn about the development and what happened to people (you already do this in school in more detail, but in Berlin you actually see it).

More importantly, in the ninth grade it’s part of the curriculum to visit a concentration camp. No specific one, usually whatever one is closest to the school. The one i visited is the one in Dachau (Munich). You can google it for more information, but it was the first concentration camp built in 1933. It was built a few weeks after H***er came into power as a kind of special prison (sound familiar yet?). It was called the Munich model, as a blueprint for many other concentration camps. In 1937 it was remodelled and expanded. In 1940 they built their own crematorium with one oven because they had too many bodies to bury or send to the crematorium of the church nearby (just think about that for a second). Once crematorium was not enough, since so many people were being killed, so in 1942 they built barrack X had from 1943 they used it. Barrack X had 4 ovens. 4. They could burn 4 bodies at once, and no one would be any wiser.

Anyway, my original point was a different one, this what the general layout of the land looked like:

I know it’s a little blurry, but the “KZ Dachau” is “concentration camp Dachau” (where they slept and eat) and “Crematoria” is “Crematorium”. Basically the houses they slept in were just rowed up. All together there were 34, 30 of which were “living barracks” and 4 “working barracks”. Each barracks had 4 like compartments, which each compartment having 2 rooms, a living room with table, chairs and a tiny locker, and a bedroom. The bedroom had triple bunk beds made out of wood, similar to the photo I reposted, except they made it even more inhumane and made it four bunks, as well as, from the looks of it, not even giving them and sheets.

The only difference at this stage is the material the bunks are made out of, and somehow wood seems more comfortable than metal.

Honestly, just looking at this, the na**s seemed more humane and compassionate than the American government. And that is not a sentence I ever thought would even exist, nor should it.

Each barrack was supposed to house 200 people. At the end of world war 2, it housed over 2000 people. Again, just take a step back and think about this for a moment. They built it so that everyone had their own bed. In the end, around 10 people would have had to share one bed. Obviously that didn’t happen and most people ended up just sleeping on the floor, or maybe even in the ceiling (see photo below)

Also, look at the photo I reposted, then look at the one below. Tell me you can see a difference and I will delete this post.

And before you comment anything stupid like “wElL THe uNIfoRmS aRE dIFfeReNT” You know exactly, that that is not what I am saying.

Also, to anyone saying that the concentration camps were built in Germany while this prison (and the many that are following, Trump has said he wants to build more. I don’t have the video right here, but it was when he was meeting the dictator of El Salvador that he kind of quietly said it) that is shown atop is in El Salvador. You are simply wrong. Yes, concentration camps did exist in Germany, but most of them were in Poland, Russia, etc., so NOT in Germany.

I could go on, but this post is already far too long and I’m tired. But there are so many more comparisons, and I will definitely add more, that sits honestly scary that it’s even gotten to this point. How. HOW? HOW CAN YOU LOOK AT HISTORY, AT HUNDREDS OF MILLION PEOPLE DYING, AND THINK, YES, LET US DO THAT AGAIN, BECAUSE I DON’T LIKE MEXICANS BECAUSE ONE ONCE STOLE MY BIKE.

The reason H***er and so got away with it, is because people had light prejudice against Jews (because of propaganda) and everyone had the it-doesn’t-affect-me-mentality.

When the Nazis came for the communists, I remained silent; I wasn't a communist.

When they came for the trade unionists, I remained silent; I wasn't a trade unionist.

When they came for the Jews, I remained silent; I wasn't a Jew.

When they came for me, there was no one left to protest.

— Martin Neumüller

This looks like a warehouse in which each person is a box on a shelf.

I don't care what these people did. No one deserves this. The only criminals are the people who put them here.

[vampiric-decay]

bad idea: dracula adaption but dracula can turn into a large lizard like a komodo dragon. imagine a komodo dragon running at you? imagine being chased by an 8 foot lizard

[annaswrites00]

Captured

CL16 x team photographer!reader

(3.3k) 

Summary - You’ve been taking photos for Ferrari for about a year. In Monza, something shifts between you and Charles... warning - none, just wholesome and cute

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You were starting to sweat, pieces of hair were starting to fall out of your braid, your knees were scuffed from kneeling on the hot track. The heat hung heavy across the paddock, thicker than usual — not surprising for Monza in September, but still annoying. Your camera gear wasn’t helping.

The Ferrari garage was busier than usual — media day always meant a rotating door of press and chaos. You stayed out of the way, like you always did. Quiet. On assignment for behind-the-scenes content: candid shots, atmosphere, crew moments. Nothing dramatic.

You were sorting through some early photos on your laptop, standing off to the side, when you noticed him.

Charles, across the garage, in red gear. He was talking to one of the engineers. Going over data. He looked relaxed. Not fake relaxed, like during press. Just… normal.

And then his eyes flicked toward you.

You didn’t move, didn’t wave. Just raised your camera without thinking and snapped a quick shot. He didn’t turn away. Just held your gaze for half a second longer than expected.

You lowered the lens, gave a tiny shrug — he almost smiled. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Then someone called his name and he was gone.

You didn’t even realize you were still staring until one of the junior media guys walked past and bumped your shoulder gently. “You good?”

You blinked. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

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Qualifying was hard to watch. Charles was fast. Not the fastest — that went to Lando — but solid. He ended up P4, just a bit behind.

You exhaled when it was over, though you hadn’t realized you’d been holding your breath.

The garage was a hum of activity again — engineers talking through strategy, mechanics resetting for the race day, the usual calm before Sunday morning. You stayed tucked by the monitors, headset still on, watching the replay roll through on one of the screens.

Charles was already out of the car, peeling off his balaclava with a slight frown. It wasn’t a horrible result, not really, P4 was still a good place to start from, but you knew him well enough to recognize the way his mouth tightened when he didn’t quite get what he wanted.

You caught his eye as he came around the back of the garage. You didn’t wave, didn’t call out. Just a look. He gave a small nod — not forced, not overly cheerful — just enough to say I’m okay.

Back in the media room, you sorted through everything. Deleted the blurry ones, cropped a few, flagged the best. Most were solid — high-energy, clean. But the one from yesterday stuck with you.

Charles, across the garage. In his Ferrari gear. That almost-look into your lens. It wasn’t perfect. Slightly soft focus, lighting not great. But it felt different. Like he hadn’t just been letting you take the photo — like he’d wanted you to.

You hesitated before dragging it into the final folder, but added it anyway.

Later, someone from his team came by and asked for selects. You handed over the drive and didn’t mention the extra shot. Just waited.

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You were wrapping up, wiping down lenses, organizing memory cards. Most of the team had gone back to the hotel or out to dinner. You were one of the last ones left in the media room, music playing low on your phone.

You were still sorting through photos when the door creaked open.

“Hey.”

You looked up. Charles leaned against the frame, slightly wet hair, hoodie sleeves pushed up. He looked relaxed — tired, in that adrenaline-heavy, post-quali daze.

“You’re still here?” he asked.

“Almost done,” you said, nodding at your mess of memory cards and cords. 

He stepped inside, looked around. “Everyone else gone?”

“Yeah. I think they escaped while they could.”

He gave a short laugh. “Smart.”

You closed your laptop, leaned back in your chair. “Are you good with P4?”

Charles nodded. “Better than expected.”

“Not bad to look at either,” you said, meaning the photos. You hesitated. “The photos turned out great. I mean.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

You shrugged. “You can look if you want.”

He held your gaze for a beat. “Sure, let me see.”

He pulled a rolling chair over and sat down next to you at the desk. You clicked through most of the photos. 

“Wow,” he murmured. “These are great.” 

“I try,” you take a breath.

There was a pause. Then he stood and looked towards the exit, “I was about to walk the track, if you’re done here.”

You blinked. “Now?”

He shrugged. “I do it most race weekends. Helps me sleep.”

You paused, then stood slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Charles smiled — soft and real — and pushed the door open wider. “Let’s go then.”

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The area was nearly empty when you stepped out together, the usual noise of the crowd replaced by the soft hum of the paddock lights. The evening air was cooler, the heat of the day now fading. The track was quieter too, without the constant flow of cars or people running around.

Charles walked beside you, not too close, just enough that you could hear him talk without straining.

"You ever get used to this?" you asked, nodding toward the track as you both began walking toward Turn 1.

"Used to the pressure? Not really," he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. "But when you’re in the car you don’t have time to overthink it."

You gave a small nod in acknowledgement. “Everyone thinks it’s just about getting in the car and driving fast. But there's so much more. All the planning, all the pressure before the weekend even starts. It’s exhausting.”

You nodded. “I can’t even imagine. But you made it through qualifying.”

Charles gave a soft chuckle, glancing sideways at you. “Not the worst result, I suppose. But it’s not just about that. The race tomorrow is what matters.”

You looked up at him, noticing how relaxed he seemed now — like the qualifying result wasn’t weighing on him too much. “You’re not worried about it?”

“I don’t usually worry about it,” he said, shrugging. “I’ve learned by now. You can’t control everything. What matters is getting that first lap right. Then seeing how the rest of the race plays out.”

You smiled, a little impressed by how composed he was. “Hopefully I’ll be able to get some shots of a celebration tomorrow.”

Charles shot you a grin. “You worry about that when the time comes, I’ll worry about the race.”

The night wrapped around everything, soft and still. The grandstands loomed empty, silent now, and your footsteps echoed faintly against the asphalt. Each stretch felt different — some parts wide open, others tighter, more closed in. The floodlights cast long, pale shadows, and the painted lines on the track looked cleaner. You didn’t talk much, the night air settled in, and the noise of distant conversations seemed muted. The circuit felt almost serene, lit up under the soft glow of the lights. 

A few steps later, you both slowed as you reached the front stretch of the circuit. You glanced over at Charles, who was watching the track like he was already mentally running through the race.

“You seem to get lost in it sometimes,” you said, your voice a little quieter.

Charles didn’t look at you right away. “Yeah. It happens more than I admit. It’s easy to forget everything around you when you’re focused.”

You smiled softly, just enough for him to catch it. “I know that feeling.”

Charles nodded slowly. “So... no special shots on the track after dark then?”

You froze for a second, then looked at him, surprised he mentioned your camera. “I don’t know... I didn’t think you would want to pose for a photo right now.”

He stopped walking then, just ahead of you, and looked over his shoulder. There was a slight grin on his face, though it didn’t feel forced. “It’s ok, you should take one.”

You raised your camera without thinking, a natural motion. Charles stood there for a moment, hands stuffed in his pockets, face soft in the ambient light of the track.

Click.

He turned around, his eyes meeting yours through the lens. “That one’s for you, huh?”

You didn’t lower the camera right away. “Yeah. That one’s mine.”

Charles didn’t move, didn’t try to break the silence. He just watched you, like he was letting you keep the moment for yourself. It was strange, that stillness between you two, but it felt comfortable in a way you couldn’t explain.

“Is that what you’re always looking for?” he asked after a pause, his voice low. “When you take photos. Just... faces?”

You glanced at him, then shrugged a little. “Not just faces. I look for feelings. Movement. Things people don’t notice in real time but might remember later.”

He was quiet for a second, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

The quiet stretched on a little longer as you both continued walking back towards the garages. The world felt a bit slower now. Charles stayed close, but there was no rush to get anywhere. You both turned back toward the paddock, the night feeling warmer somehow — softer, even with the tension of the race looming.

He waited for you as you packed up. Silently offering to walk you to the exit.

You cleared your throat. “You want to know something stupid?”

He tilted his head. “Always.”

“I used to come to races as a fan,” you said, your voice light. “Long before this job. My dad was a huge Ferrari fan, so we’d come whenever we could. I remember once — it was here, actually — I got this blurry photo of you walking past the barriers.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, curious. You smiled at the memory.

“It was your Sauber days. You were just walking by, head down, sunglasses on. Nothing special about it. But I loved that photo. Not because of how you looked or anything, but because it captured the feeling of the weekend. Like, it wasn’t about the big moments — it was the small, quiet things that made it real.”

Charles was quiet.

You laughed lightly, trying to shake the sudden weird vulnerability of it. “Anyway. Just funny where things end up.”

He didn’t laugh. Just looked at you a second longer.

“You still have the photo?”

You blinked. “Somewhere, probably.”

“If you can find it, send it to me.”

You hesitated. “Why?”

Charles shrugged, a little softer now. “Might help me remember what it was like. When I first started.”

“Sure. Goodnight Charles,” you stated before walking through the exit area.

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The noise was deafening. But you barely registered it.

People surged around you — team members shouting, cameras flashing. The energy was electric, like it always was after a win. But this time, it felt like more. It was Monza. And it was Charles.

You stood slightly off to the side, camera in hand, watching as he jumped out of the car and ran into the arms of the team as they lifted him up. There was something surreal about it — seeing him there, grin wide and tired and impossibly proud as he pulled off his helmet. The whole garage was buzzing, and yet, he found you through it.

Just a glance.

You didn’t even realize you’d been smiling until he grinned back.

You lifted the camera instinctively. He held your eyes for a second, then looked away right as you clicked.

Another one for you.

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Later, when things quieted down, you found a moment to breathe. The sun had started to set, painting the paddock gold, and your heart had finally stopped pounding from the chaos of it all.

You were reviewing the last few shots on your screen when you heard his voice.

“I was looking for you.”

You looked up to find Charles, still in his race suit, the top half tied around his waist. His hair was damp from the podium celebration, cheeks still flushed with adrenaline and heat. His eyes — tired but bright — locked onto yours.

“You found me,” you said, smiling.

He stepped closer, glancing down at the camera in your hands. “Get any good ones?”

“I got one where Oscar’s pouring champagne down your back.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. 

You flipped through a few shots, stopped on the one from earlier — the moment he’d looked at you through the crowd. You angled the screen toward him.

“This one’s my favorite.”

He leaned in to see it. Then, quietly: “Mine too.”

You glanced at him, a little caught off guard.

“You look happy,” you said.

“I am happy,” he corrected gently.

There was a pause. Something real hung in the air between you — not something loud or dramatic. Just… there.

Charles shifted closer, his presence making the air between you feel a little heavier, but in a way that was comforting, familiar. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just gazed at the photo, his eyes lingering on the way the light caught his face.

“I’ve never really seen myself like this,” he said quietly, his voice almost thoughtful.

You tilted your head, not quite understanding what he was saying. “What do you mean?”

He glanced up, meeting your gaze, and there was a softness there that made your heartbeat a little faster. “Like… I don’t know. You capture something I don’t always notice.”

You smiled, a soft warmth spreading through you. “I think it's easier to see things clearly when you're not in the middle of it. You were just living it in the moment. But from the outside... it looks different.”

Charles took a slow breath, his gaze still on you, and for a second, everything else faded. There was nothing loud, nothing demanding your attention — just the two of you, standing close, the faint hum of the paddock and the soft evening light surrounding you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever really stopped to appreciate how much these little moments matter,” he said softly, his voice lower now, more intimate.

You felt a flutter in your chest, but you didn’t look away. “Easy to forget, isn’t it?” you whispered. “But they do matter. They add up.”

Charles took another step closer, his hand brushing lightly against yours. It was barely a touch, but it made your pulse quicken. “I think I’d like to appreciate more of them with you,” he said, his voice quiet, but warm, like he was letting something out that had been there for a while.

Your heart skipped, and for a second, you weren’t sure what to say. But the way he was looking at you — like he meant it, like he was offering something real — made it feel like the right thing to do was just… lean in a little closer.

“I’d like that too,” you murmured, the words slipping out almost naturally.

Charles smiled then, a soft, sincere smile, and you could see the relief in his eyes, like he’d been holding his breath just as much as you. He pulled your camera out of your hands. Set it on the table next to you both. “Good,” he said quietly, his voice just for you. 

Your heart skipped at the words, and for a moment, all you could do was look at him. The air between you felt charged now, every little detail magnified in the quiet. His eyes, so steady on yours, told you everything you needed to know. The soft way his lips parted slightly, as though he was about to say something more, but instead, he let the silence stretch between you.

You stepped closer, your hand brushing against his again, and you felt him shift, like he was leaning into this moment just as much as you were. His fingers lightly grazed yours, and it was like a gentle spark shot through you, making everything feel more real, more immediate.

And then, without thinking, your breath caught in your chest, and you leaned in just a little bit further. His eyes softened, a quiet question in them, but you didn’t need to say anything. He moved closer too, just enough that when your lips met, it was slow, tender — a touch like the first brush of rain on warm skin.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It was soft and full of quiet promises. He tasted like champagne. You felt his hand reach up, brushing your cheek lightly, the warmth of his touch grounding you in the moment. You deepened the kiss just a fraction, letting the connection settle in, feeling the warmth of his body close to yours, the quiet hum of the world around you fading away.

His other hand left yours and wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. The movement was gentle but firm, as if he was silently asking you to stay in this moment, just a little longer. You felt his warmth against you, the steady rhythm of his breath mixing with yours, and it made the world around you feel like it was falling away. The soft press of his lips, the way his hand gently cupped your face, the faint taste of his skin — it was everything. It was the kind of kiss that made time slow down, that made you feel like this was the moment that mattered.

When you finally pulled away, it was almost like you had to remind yourself to breathe. His forehead was resting against yours, both of you standing there for a few beats, not needing to say anything more. The words didn’t matter. The kiss, the quiet exchange, was enough.

Charles’ hand left your waist to intertwine with yours and he gave it a soft squeeze. His smile was small but sincere, a little unsure, but that only made it sweeter. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered, his voice still low, just for you.

You smiled, your heart full, the soft echo of the kiss still lingering between you. “I’m glad I am too,” you murmured back, your voice soft, but full of the same sincerity that had just passed between you.

And for a moment, everything felt right — like you had finally found something real in the midst of all the chaos.

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Thank you for reading!!

[iluminatka16]

"From beyond the stars" Chapter 3

Chapter 2 [Chapter List]

Summary: Why it's not worth insulting the Emperor and a conversation with the main culprit of the whole Heresy, Horus.

Tags: isekai, ending up in a fictional universe, primarchxf!oc, found family trope, emperor and horus make an apperance

Warnings: mention of failed suicide attempt, cursing, typical canon violence, mention of child abuse

Word count: 2773 Edit: FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHIG THAT IS HOLY AND UNHOLY, I ACCIDENTALY PUT FEW WRONG TAGS, AND TUMBLR ISN'T ALLOWING ME TO DELETE THEM (*screams of despair*). no, this isn't emperor x reader fic

Unfortunately, she was not given peace of mind this time either. Before either brother had time to answer her, heavy rhythmic footsteps sounded behind them. Yelena turned toward the sound and sighed quietly. It seemed that Custodian had returned to his post. But since he was walking towards them, it meant that either they were in trouble for talking to her, or the Neoth wanted something from her.

“The Emperor is expecting you.” briefly without explanation. Of course, she could have tried to inquire, but she knew perfectly well that it would have accomplished nothing. The bodyguard of the most powerful man in the galaxy probably didn't know himself what exactly was going on. Because why share his plans with anyone? What could have gone wrong? Let's think. Ah well! All this mystery led to a fucking heresy and Neoth looking like a zombie from The Walking Dead.

“Looks like I'm in trouble. Farawell gentlemen, if I survive then I definitely need to have a chat with you.” Yelena extended her finger in front of her and moved it to none other than the primarch, after whom the aforementioned heresy was named. “Especially with you Horus.”

“Horus? I thought most baseline humans call me My Lord.”

Yelena only smiled.

The road through the golden corridors was a torture. Lack of sleep, hunger, anxiety. All this made her think she was going crazy. She had barely been here, and she had managed to insult the fucking Emperor himself and break his ban. Three times! She was not supposed to talk to the primarchs, and she talked to three of them. And also with Curz. It's a good thing the Heresy of Horus hadn't happened yet, because if she had met that version of Konrad… well, she still remembered the passage in the book about him, where he decided to murder almost the entire crew of the ship and torture the only survivor. On top of that, there was still that fucking Custodian. Not only did he not react when the Night Haunter followed her footsteps into the garden, even though the primarchs were also forbidden to go near her, but he also walked away from the site of his post-

Wait a moment.

Custodian is no ordinary soldier who simply runs away from his post to go play cards. Even if his family was dying in front of him, he wouldn't move unless the Emperor himself gave the order… THAT BASTARD.

The door to the spacious study closed behind her, and Yelena was left alone with Neoth. The man was staring at a holographic map projector of some planetary system in front of him, not even raising his eyes to look at her.

“You set me up.” Yelena didn't care about the titles at this point, feeling her rage boiling inside her. She thought that she was indeed going mad from lack of sleep.

“You said they could be saved. Testing your words was the only option. Admittedly, my plans for your first confrontation looked a bit different, but you handled everything yourself by running out into the garden. It was a matter of time before Curze followed you. From what I noticed, you are like a magnet for my sons. I was honestly surprised that none of them broke my prohibition and entered the chamber I assigned to you. But I must admit that you have done remarkably well.”

“Talking to him was "doing remarkably well"? He didn't take anything from my words, an-”

“Konrad spent the whole night talking to you.” The Emperor interrupted her, finally lifting his gaze from above the map. “That's more than his brothers accomplished in their years of Crusade together. And you managed to get him interested in just a dozen minutes of discussion together.”

“So what do you expect me to do?”

“Since you were able to get to Konrad, it should go easily with the other primarchs. You know their mentality, past and future. You know what awaits them.”

“And then what?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Yelena slowly approached the table. She didn't even think about her next words.

“Let's say I'll stop the heresy, which might be difficult, because there's a chance I'll accidentally make things worse. Great, you have your generals, you're not trapped in a golden chair, undergoing torture for ten thousand years. You've conquered the entire cosmos. What's next? Are you going to get rid of them like you got rid of the Thunder Warriors?”

Neoth slowly straightened up. Probably it was the action of his power, but Yelena felt an unpleasant shudder run through her body under his gaze. She felt so small, so insignificant. Like a bug that he could trample with his shoe. Well, and here his was a mistake. She was so familiar to this feeling, that it only fueled her rage.

“Careful…”

“Because what? Are you going to kill me?” Yelena hissed, clenching her hands into fists. “Just like you killed those who opposed you? Because so far I am the only one who knows the exact course of events of the heresy. You don't know them, otherwise you wouldn't have ended up the way you ended up in the books with the whole Imperium going to shit.”

“Don't overestimate yourself. You are not as important as you think. The fact that you're still alive is due solely to my grace. One more word and you'll end up in a cell, where I'll extract this information from you with torture.”

“Even knowing the exact course of the heresy, you wouldn't be able to stop it. Do you know why? Because you are an bad father who sees, men who blindly obey you, as tools in your Great Fucking Plan.”

After that, there was only pain. Yelena felt like her body went up in flames. Blood gushed from her nose and filled her throat, running down her chin. Suddenly standing became too painful and before she knew it, she was collapsed onto the floor, convulsing in pain. She had no idea what was happening, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. It was hard to tell how long it lasted, but suddenly everything went quiet. She was still on the floor, choking on her own blood, and standing over her was none other than Neoth.

“Maybe the world you were born into is much softer and merciful, but there are different rules here. I have killed for lesser offenses than loudly insulting me. You are weak. You are a nobody. And killing you will be like squashing an ant with a shoe.”

As if to confirm her words, Yelena felt his boot resting on her head. She wasn't stupid. She knew that he could easily split her skull, mix bones and brain. One push. That was all it took. The fact that he hadn't done it yet meant that he was giving her a chance to apologize. For her to beg for mercy.

The problem was that she felt no fear. Only rage. It was as if she was again a child being beaten by her father using his belt, trying to break her. If he wasn't able to do it, she'd sooner die than let a fucking fictional character do this. Even if she was going to die for it.

“And you're an arrogant prick whose own personality made all the perpetuals run away from him, then his sons, who loved him above life, betrayed him, and his Great Plan went to shit.”

Yelena was panting like a wild animal caught in a trap. Her eyes were wide open, and although her view was partially obscured by the man's boot, she stared ahead with almost burning gaze. Her bloody face was contorted in a grimace that she had worn more than once when dealing with bad fathers.

“I can kill you at any second, and yet you are not afraid. All I can sense from you is rage. You are filled with hatred. You say I am arrogant, yet look at yourself. Too proud to yield even in the face of death.”

Yelena did not answer him. She merely clenched her jaw, waiting for a push to fix what should have happened when she jumped off that bridge. But to her surprise, no, shock, instead she felt the pressure on her head disappear and a strong hand grabbed her arm and lifted her to her feet. Oh fuck, how painful it was. Her muscles forced to move ignited, drawing a broken whimper from her mouth.

“The pain will go away soon.”

Easy to fucking say. Yelena had no idea what was going on until someone pushed her to sit on a armchair, clearly made for the measurements of primarchs, and a silk handkerchief was placed in her hand.

“Get yourself in order.” The Emperor muttered, resting his hands on the beautifully decorated table. “You mentioned two times that… how did you put it? The Imperium went to shit. What is the fate of humanity after my sons betrayed me?”

Yelena thought for a moment about telling him to fuck off after the way he treated her, but decided she didn't feel like testing her luck any further. “Ten thousand years have passed, you are immobilized on the Golden Throne, the Imperium is attacked from all sides. It is ruled by corrupt fanatics and the Inquisition… ah yes, the Inquisition are also corrupt fanatics.” With a quick movement, she wiped the blood from under her nose and moved her handkerchief to her chin. “Chaos is attacking with new power, on top of that new enemies have appeared - Tau, Necrons, Tyranids. You almost became the fifth god of chaos, and ten thousand years of constant torture probably destroyed your psyche to the point that you were probably no longer yourself. And also they made you into a god in whose name they kill others or even themselves.”

Fucking Lorgar.

Neoth nodded slowly. “What do you expect in return for your help?”

“Excuse me?"

“You don't want to help me kill potential traitors, so I expect you to help me stop them from descending into chaos. Death threats don't work on you, so I'm asking what you want from me in exchange for your help.”

Yelena thought for a second. “First of all, nothing will succeed without your help. Be their father, even if you don't see them as your sons. Teach them about the threat from the chaos gods, explain Warp to Magnus, help Konrad with his madness. Just… take care of them. Second - when the Great Crusade is over, don't kill them. Let them live in peace, in the way they choose. Third… if you decide to kill me after all this is over, I ask that you do it quickly. Don't send me to the Astra Militarum to die there, just kill me in my sleep. So that I don't have to suffer.”

“You're not going to beg for your life? You know that I am able to make you a lord of some rich pleasure planet, or give you a place in one of my offices. Why don't you beg for it?”

Yelena shrugged her shoulders. “You will do what you think is right. I only ask that if you decide you want to kill me, that you spare me the suffering.”

“It's a deal then. I will change my attitude toward my sons, and your death will not be painful. You have my word.”

She had no idea if he was lying. He had done it many times in the books, so she could expect pretty much anything. This time, however, she did not question him. If, after what she told him, he still decided, to be stubborn, there was nothing she could do. They talked for a good hour, where she briefly had to explain to him what tyranids and tau were, but in the end, perhaps seeing that she was actually barely keeping her eyes due to the exhaustion, he took pity on her, ordering the Custodian to escort her to her chamber. Unfortunately, she couldn't have a moment of peace here either, as she was caught on the way by none other than Horus. Primarch, of course, demanded an explanation, which she refused to give him until they were both in her chamber.

“Can you explain why you insist so much that we talk in private? You run like a rabbit from me.” Horus began, watching as Yelena sat down on the bed

“Because if anyone were to hear that you were responsible for the heresy named after you, which almost killed your father, placing his almost corpse on the golden throne and led to the death of most of the primarchs, one of us would be in a lot of trouble.” The girl fixed her green eyes on him, silently hissing in pain as she moved her aching body a little deeper into the bed.

“Oh”

“Oh, definitely. The corruption wasn't necessarily your fault, but what happened next… well. The death of trillions of people, with the Imperium in shambles. Also you killed Sanguinius.”

Horus stared at her in silence. She wasn't sure if it was due to disbelief in her words, or if he simply ran out of words.

“How do I know you're telling the truth? That sounds absurd. Even leaving aside my loyalty to my father, I would never hurt my closest friend.”

“The gods of chaos make mush out of your mind. And why would I lie? It was your father who first tried to boil my blood alive and then almost smashed my head with his shoe. All because I called him out and refused to give him your name, among other things, as a potential traitor.”

Silent footsteps sounded and after a moment the mattress next to her depressed downwards under Horus' weight.

“Why did you risk so much? And if it's true… what made me turn my back on my family?”

“Well… I think each of you has a chance to avoid this fate.” Yelena took one strand of hair between her fingers, trying to brush away the dried blood that was on the tip. “Your fall to chaos was the fault of Erebus and Lorgar. You were seriously wounded in battle and a ritual was performed on your dying body. Erebus appeared to you as someone you trusted, unfortunately I don't remember the name, and showed you a vision that after the Great Crusade was successful, the Emperor would rule as a god and kill the primarchs as soon as they were no longer useful. You believed this vision, and then after talking to Erebus, you joined the chaos gods.”

“Lorgar? How long has he been a traitor? Has he already become one?”

“Has the Monarchia been destroyed?”

“No.”

“So he hasn't become one yet. I have no idea exactly where in the timeline we are, but incydent in Monarchia was actually the beginning of what I know as the Horus Heresy. Erebus, on the other hand… well, he's been a pawn of the chaos gods basically since he was a child and is currently manipulating Lorgar.”

Another moment of silence from Horus. “We need to get rid of him, but we can't openly kill him without evidence. I'm guessing that father prefers that your… origins remain a secret, so I can't use your words as evidence. I also can't attack and kill him without reason, after all he is an acolyte of Lorgar.”

“We need to talk to your brother. And actually with all the brothers. If the original heresy can be stopped, there is a chance that another of its variants will happen. From what you said, Lion is already furious with your father for giving me so much freedom.”

“Don't worry about Lion, I'll talk to him.” Horus got out of bed and walked toward the door. “You'll have a chance to talk to the other brothers, because they're all coming together for the great feast father is throwing to celebrate the tremendous victories during the Great Crusade. I, Sangunius, Lion and Curze arrived first, but from what I've heard, Magnus, Guilliman, Vulkan and Perturabo should show up in a few days. The rest will show up within a month.”

“Oh Lord…” Bonus: The collage I created for Yelena. Yes, she was a singer and performed in the theater.

Author's note: I would like to apologize for going so long without a chapter and for this one being so short. A lot has happened in my life, and college has done to me what Vulcan did to Konrad using his teleporter, which was also a hammer. In addition, the writer's block is still biting me in the ass. The plot begins to slowly unfold, and I guarantee that not every primarch will be so friendly (calling Perturapo a “manchild”? what could go wrong). Tag list: @beckyninja @athenaremo @justfreakynothingelse @lukarus @synfiction @thatnightlamp @pirateshippers-first-mate @amoelcafe12345 @zyra-7 @walking-natural-disaster @vithralith @ihasnopen @mooniequeen @kit-williams @roxygobyebye

[balrogballs]

I don’t know if I’m going crazy or if it wasn’t you but did you post this extract or something about Elwing where you talk about how the hate she gets isn’t given to Eärendil? I thought it was in your island story and I was looking through to find it again through a few of your fics but I can’t find it! Did you delete and would you mind posting again because it rewired my brain lol,

Oh yes that was indeed me haha, I didn’t delete it but you may have been looking in the wrong place… it was actually in this Elrond and Maedhros centric story and one of my more rambling ones so it’s an unexpected place for it to be. Anyway if you’re just after that section, I’ve copied it here for you!

—————

I see the look in his eye and wonder if he will ask me That Question about my mother. Most do at some point. It grates at me. The Eldar all but pray to my father. Gil-Estel this, Eärendil that. And not just the Eldar. The Valar made him into a star, sprayed his ship with silver and what not. And even Celeborn of old Doriath, who knew my mother as a child, even he once asked me — did you hate your mother? Did you despise her? You loved your foster-fathers so much, you still do, so your mother must be dirt for you, Elrond, is that not so? And I do not fault them the question. It is an understandable question.

And yet I cannot help but wonder each time, why they never ask such things about my father?

After all, my father has done all the same things. It was, from what I hear, he who turned the ship to Aman as they got the news about us. It was he who saw no hope in the lands of Middle-Earth, and turned again in despair and came not home but sought back once more to Valinor. They crossed the same sea, did they not? She flew and he sailed. All I feel for her, I feel the same for him. If I love her, I love him. If I do not love her, then I do not love him. If I understand her, I understand him. All I think of her, I think of him.

Still, it is his ship that has been gilded and sent up to the divine sky, and it is her who was put into a tower of silence with only birds for friends and granted occasional feathers. He is Eärendil the Star of Hope, and she is Elwing the Fucking Bitch.

Now you see why I hate that question. I understand it and I hate it. Do you love Elwing? Do you hate her? Sometimes, my friend, I feel like it is not fleeing that the Eldar judge her for. Nor for leaving us behind, nor for not handing over those stones. Sometimes I think they punish my mother Elwing for the same reason they punish my father Maedhros, who sits before me with his lonely eyes whilst his brothers all live again in Valinor.

Sometimes I think they were not punished for slaying nor for fleeing, not punished for anything to do with the Silmarils but for looking forever in the eye and spurning it. For choosing to cast themselves to certain death. My mother Elwing was not born winged and my father Maedhros was not born cruel.

They both shut their eyes and leapt into the ravening dark. The roiling flame, the churning sea. In another world, they would have been the best of friends. They would jump hand-in-hand again-and-again to spite eternity. The loneliest man in Middle Earth and the loneliest woman in Aman. Knowing that is enough for me. I only wish someone would ask me what I felt for Eärendil too.

[artdonalldson]

White Mustang

Patrick Zweig x Reader

SUMMARY: "Summer’s meant for lovin’ and leavin’..." You knew what he was from the start. All charm, all warning signs. But you still chased lightning across the court, thinking maybe this time you wouldn't burn.

CONTENT: No use of pronouns, no physical descriptions, mostly angst with a bit of fluff and a bittersweet ending, suggestive content, complicated feelings, fleeting intimacy, some internalized heartbreak, a lot of metaphor-heavy narration and longing. Think of this as somewhere between 2010 and 2011, Patrick's still the rich kid, his career starting to decay.

Inspired by White Mustang by Lana Del Rey

A/N: Promised to post this like two weeks ago but I kept rewriting until I felt satisfied and hurt my own feelings while at it. Idk but I felt White Mustang would be good with Patrick and I got inspired to do this! Hope you enjoy it! Would love it if you had some feedback cause I'm thinking of making a part two for this one! :)

WORD COUNT: ~2.9k

At first it was something fun, sneaking into the members-only club, maybe it was curiosity or maybe you wanted to see how it felt to belong somewhere you don’t, but you slipped through like a secret. all you knew was that you needed a place to breathe.

You thought you were the kind of girl who wouldn't get noticed here. Not by the members, not by the staff, and certainly not by the players, but then he arrives.

Patrick Zweig. Fresh off some tournament in Europe; you've heard about him before, you've heard that he comes from a rich family, that he's gone pro for a while now but that he's not doing good lately... Among other things.

The first time you see him is under the brutal sun, playing at some charity tournament organized by the club, and yes, you know you're not supposed to be sitting at the bleachers and watching him play, and yet you can't stop yourself.

He's tall, handsome, unreal. All in white, as if the court was built around him. As if he’s always been here.

He moves like he’s on fire, every serve cuts through the air like it’s personal. There’s a kind of violence in how he moves on the court, the way he hits every ball.

He looks like something designed to be admired from a distance.

And you do. You watch every move he does.

Right now, your world has narrowed to a white blur and a boy you shouldn’t be watching this closely.

He doesn’t notice you. Of course he doesn’t.

But deep inside, you wish he did.

---

And when he does, it happens three days later, right behind the bleachers, where the afternoon heat sticks to skin and makes conversation feel heavier than it should.

You see him walking by, holding a racket and a towel, hair damp, shirt clinging to his back after some training match, you're not sure he even looked at you but then you hear him talk.

“You always watch from the top row,” he says, making you stop and turn around.

You blink. “I—what?”

He gestures lazily upward. “You sit high up. Good angle.”

His curls are damp with sweat and you can now see his face covered by tiny freckles, his beautiful eyes, he's even more handsome up close.

“You’ve seen me?”

He shrugs. “Hard not to.”

He’s standing there, just watching you as if he's trying to read your mind.

“Here,” he says, and slips something into your hand, a faint smirk on his lips.

A scrap of paper. A number.

“You don’t have to call,” he adds, already turning away. “Just figured—if you wanted.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you to wonder if this could be the beginning of something.

---

You type the number and save it into your contacts, but you don’t call.

You stare at it for two days, debating if you should delete it and lose the piece of paper again into your bag.

You've heard things about him, that he won the juniors US Open a couple years ago but also you've heard the whispers, everyone says he's the kind to leave when someone gets too close.

And you're not sure if you want to believe that, all you feel is that this could be the kind of story that will end with someone burning.

You just don't know who would catch fire first.

---

A couple weeks later you sneak at the tournament’s afterparty.

Not the official with sponsors, champagne flutes and forced smiles, but the second one, the one that doesn’t start until past midnight, half a mile from the courts in a rented house that smells like sweat and cheap alcohol.

You wander through the house when you see him walking out of the kitchen, drinking some vodka from the plastic cup in his hand, he's now wearing a white t-shirt, blue jeans and looking kinda… expensive.

"You never called," he says as soon as he spots you, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “I kept checking. You didn’t even text.”

You freeze mid-step, thinking of a good excuse—anything.

“I figured you’d forget about it by the next day,” you reply, trying not to look too long at the way he looks even more handsome out of his sports clothes.

“I remember everything,” Patrick says, cutting through the crowd to find you.

“Especially when I give someone something and they don’t use it.”

You cross your arms. “I never promised to call”

He tilts his head, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t say that. Just surprised you’re here.”

“I could say the same about you.”

He shrugs. “Well there's free alcohol”

There’s something brittle behind the way he says it. A tiredness that doesn’t match the noise around them.

“You want to get out of here?” he asks.

---

A little later you're outside, to the back deck, where the world is cooler and quieter. There’s a hot tub no one’s using and string lights that don’t quite reach the edges of the yard.

Patrick sits beside you on the wooden railing, his drink forgotten somewhere inside.

You don’t talk much at first but then he asks:

“You know who I am?”

The question isn’t arrogant. It’s almost… tired.

“I’ve heard things,” you admit.

“Yeah. People always hear things.”

He sounds far away, like he’s remembering some version of himself he doesn’t like at all.

“You think they’re true?” he asks.

You take a look at him, but you don't see the Patrick from the court. Not the one from the gossip and the whispers.

This one looks quieter. Less sharp around the edges. Like maybe he wants to stop being the uprising tennis star just for a minute.

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “That’s why I didn’t call.”

He nods, slow, thoughtful. “Fair.”

And then he leans in. Not fast. Not bold. Like he’s giving you time to walk away.

He’s just close enough for you to feel his breath when he says:

“When I first saw you I thought that maybe we could have something different.”

You don't kiss, not yet, but none of you walk away either.

And somehow, that feels more dangerous.

---

You don’t become a thing. Not in a way that anyone could name, but you start showing up to his practices more often, not every day but enough to feel like a pattern. He doesn’t ask you to come. You don’t ask if he wants you there.

You just sit high in the bleachers like you always have, water bottle sweating beside you, sunglasses hiding how much you're watching.

He starts looking up between sets. Sometimes he smirks. Sometimes he just stares, like he’s making sure you haven't left.

And then after the matches, the soft kisses and heavy makeout sessions happen behind the bleachers, but it stops there, you don't ask for more, neither does he, maybe it's for the better, that way no one's gonna burn when the lightning strikes.

---

One afternoon, after a long practice and a longer silence, he finds you at the vending machine near the locker rooms. It’s barely working — chewing at your dollar like it’s too tired to finish the job.

Patrick steps behind her. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just watching you struggle with the stupid machine.

“Let me,” he says eventually, nudging you aside with his shoulder.

You huff. “I’ve almost got it.”

“You’ve almost had it for three minutes.” He taps the glass with his knuckle as you attempt to shove the dollar in once again.

The machine grinds, shudders, and finally spits out a bottle of iced tea.

You blink at it. “Okay, that’s terrifying.”

He shrugs. “This shit works better under pressure.”

There’s a pause before you mumble.

“You're different when you’re not on court.”

He glances at her. “Good different or bad different?”

“Neither. Just… more human.”

Something in his expression softens. “Didn’t realize I came with a soft side.”

“I kinda like it.” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer, but the way he looks at you right after says more than he needs to.

You sit on the bench just outside the court. Just shoulder to shoulder, the way people do when they’re pretending not to fall into something that already started.

“You’re not scared of me,” he says suddenly, he's not asking.

You turn to him. “Should I be?”

Patrick’s smile is crooked. “Maybe. I tend to ruin things.”

“You haven’t ruined this,” you say.

“Not yet,” he replies, and the way he says it is so honest it hurts.

He looks away, something like guilt flickering in his expression. “I’m like lightning. You don’t chase lightning — you just get burned when it hits.”

You lean in, soft but sure. “I like the thrill of chasing lighting”

---

It happens after a loss.

Not a catastrophic one, but enough to bruise the ego, enough to remind him that his career is slowly slipping away.

He doesn’t ask you to come with him after. Just glances across the parking lot and says, “I’m leaving”

Not a question.

Not a request.

But you follow anyway.

The apartment is all clean lines and quiet light. The kind of place that feels temporary, no matter how long you stay. He walks in first, drops his bag near the armchair and takes off his sneakers like they're too heavy.

You stand near the door a beat too long.

“You didn’t have to come,” he says, still facing the window.

“I know. But I care about you”

Patrick turns toward you. There’s something raw in his expression — not pain exactly, just something unguarded, like the mask slipped and he didn’t catch it in time.

He exhales, short and soft. “You always say the right thing.”

“I’m not trying to,” she replies. “I just speak what's in my heart”

That makes him look at her differently. Like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

And then he crosses the room.

He doesn’t kiss you right away. He just touches your face — slow, bandaged knuckles grazing your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says quietly. “But it’s the only thing that feels like it isn’t slipping away right now.”

Your breath catches. “Then hold on to it.”

And this time, he does

—

When he finally touched you, it wasn��t sudden. His fingers brushed yours, then hesitated. You shifted closer, a silent permission. Then his hand moved — slow, steady — up your arm, over your shoulder, finally cupping the side of your neck. His thumb traced just beneath your jaw like he was memorizing the shape of you. You leaned in before you could stop yourself.

The kiss was soft at first — unbearably so. No rush. No hunger. Just warmth, like he was testing the water before diving in. It was very unlike him, and he knew that.

His lips pressed into yours with care, his hands were bolder, slipping down to your waist, tugging you closer until your body fit against his, wanting to feel you completely.

His mouth deepened the kiss, open and seeking, and you gave into it with something close to a sigh. Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through his curls, wanting him closer, needing more and more of him.

You undressed each other slowly, clothes tugged away with care rather than urgency. He kissed the skin he uncovered — your shoulder, your ribs, the curve of your hip — like he was trying to leave something behind. Not marks. Not possession. Just presence

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t try to impress. He just learns you — inch by inch , sigh by sigh.

At one point he murmurs, face in the crook of your neck.

“I never slow down like this.”

“And why is that?.”

He smiles — something small and sad.

“You make me forget I’m not built for this.”

---

Later, you lie tangled in sheets and shadow.

You're curled on her side, your head resting on his chest and for once, he’s awake, but quiet, his hand caressing the curve of your hip under the blanket.

“You scare me,” he finally breaks the silence.

You blink.

“What? Why?”

“Because you see me too clearly. Because this could be something if I let it.”

“And if you did?”

“I’d ruin it.”

You stay quiet for a moment, and then you say:

“Maybe not.”

His hand leaves your hip and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I ruin good things before they have the chance to be real.”

“I don’t think I imagined what happened tonight.”

“You didn’t.”

Another pause.

“Then don't let me go.” you whisper.

—

There was a moment — brief and fragile — where you felt him soften, where it felt like the world peeled back and he let you see all of him. The loneliness. The weight. The want. And you thought: this could be it. This could change something.

But soon you'd find out good things don't last forever.

He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed when you wake up. Shirt half on, expression unreadable.

You sit up slowly. “Patrick?”

He glances back at you, looking slightly guilty. “I’ve got a flight in three hours.”

“That’s not what I wanted to ask”

He doesn’t answer.

You want to ask what last night meant. If it changed anything. But the words die on the tip of your tongue because you already know it meant something to you. That’s the problem.

You get out of bed, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “Are you really going to disappear like everyone said you would?”

Patrick stands. Stills. Then, softly:

“I told you not to trust me.”

You don’t cry, not in front of him, but you can already feel the tears stinging your eyes.

“You told me a lot of things, Pat.”

He hesitates. Like he might come closer.

Like he might undo it all and say he wants to stay.

But he doesn't.

---

It’s not the first time someone’s left.

But it’s the first time it felt like something was taken away from you.

Weeks pass and you go back to your regular rhythm — whatever that means now. Mornings feel too quiet. Coffee doesn’t taste right. Music doesn’t sit well in her ears. Everything is a little too loud or not loud enough.

He doesn’t text.

Doesn’t call.

Doesn’t check in.

And you don't reach out either — not because you don't want to, but because you're not going to be the girl who begs him to come back.

You remind yourself that he warned you, his words still ringing in your head.

You scare me.

I never slow down like this.

I ruin good things

Sometimes you stare at the text thread that still has his number. No messages. Not even a dot-dot-dot. Just the space where something could have been.

“Hope you're doing okay.”

You delete it.

> “Was it real for you?”

Delete that too.

Because if it was real, it wouldn’t be this.

Maybe it's time to move on.

---

A couple months later, a different court, somewhere in Atlanta. You're not there to see him. Hell, you didn’t even know he was playing this tournament.

You're passing by, near the food vendors right outside the tennis stadium when you spot a familiar figure. He’s in a grey t-shirt, hair damp, headphones slung around his neck.

For a second, he doesn’t notices you.

But then he looks up.

And stops.

Your eyes meet for a moment and no one moves.

“Hey,” he says. Like it hasn’t been months. Like he didn’t disappear without a word.

Then he smiles. Small, tired… Real.

You cross your arms and you can't help the words that leave your mouth.

“You still giving out your number and vanishing after you get too close?”

He winces. “Okay, I deserved that.”

“Yeah.”

A pause. Wind in the trees. People walking past, none of them aware of the way time just stopped for them.

He steps a little closer. Not too close.

“I wanted to call you. A lot.”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“That I was just another layover between tournaments? That what happened was forgettable?”

Patrick swallows. His voice drops. “It wasn’t.”

And somehow, that hurts more than if he’d said nothing.

You nod. “Okay.”

He glances down at the ground. Then back up. “I want to get better. At staying. At being… decent.

You soften. Just a little. “I hope you do.”

He exhales like he was holding that breath the whole time. “Are you—?”

“I’m good,” you say. “Really.”

“Still chasing lightning?” he asks, gently teasing.

You tilt your head. “No. I think I’m done chasing.”

Patrick nods, slowly. Thoughtful. Regret in his eyes, but not drowning in it.

They stand there for a moment longer. Neither says a thing.

And maybe that’s what growing up is — not making someone stay, but letting them leave knowing they mattered.

You take a step back.

“Take care, Patrick.”

“You too.”

And then you turn, walking away, your heart a little heavier, but your spine straighter.

Behind you, you hear him say it — too quiet for anyone else to catch:

“I still think about you”

You don't look back, but this time, you smile for real

---

THE END

[vile-br4t]

a FOURTEEN year old girl with a nsfw hard kink blog followed me and I think I reported over 15 times before blocking 😩

Sick to my stomach because I can say all I want minors don’t belong here!!!! I really mean it too!! But I was once that girl and the memories it brings back of only being groomed, manipulated & taken advantage of still make me stop for a minute because that’s heavy shit. So I guess if you shithead minors come across this post, I remember feeling as grown as you think you are and I’m so sorry you’re losing a childhood you’ll never get back. Not that it’ll make you delete your account but I have nothing but regrets for my time from 8-17 & indulging things I had no business knowing about but MOST important, partaking in. It’s really the being apart of it because I know there’s grown ass men excited to find your blog for all the wrong reasons and any attention is not good when it’s from a literal pedophile. You feel so grown now but one day it will hurt. It always does and I promise you most adults on this hellscape site who did the same shit sexualizing themselves from a young age, also regret it.

Those adult men do not have your best interest at heart. You are not special and partaking in bdsm with them in any aspect is seriously dangerous. If I could kick little me’s ass for the situations I lived through (and I fully mean, lived through!) it’s so not worth it 😩 aimless because children are children and do not have the brain capacity to always comprehend what’s being said but it just makes me so upset

[adaki]

GIRLS NITE OUT >_< ((clockwork could not make it)) (wip)

[drawcupidsbow]

okay i have been. looking for so long and i cant find it So im asking the people of tumblr. i recently switched the computer im using and therefore lost my custom siffrin cursor i had and i cant for the life of me find the person who made it anymore because it was on twitter and also like a year ago 💔

all i have is this grainy picture i took Of my old laptop screen. but this is what he looks like and hes animated . does anyone know where i can find them again.... or even if anyone downloaded him and is willing to send me the files i want them back so badly 😓

[ofswordsandpens]

circular discourse, criticism being met with death threats... pjo fandom we're so back baby

[milkbreadtoast]

yoohyunie chibi doodles... trying to learn how to draw him🥺❤️‍🔥

[billcarden]

mods asleep post zac oyama fancam

[ashtcnirwin]

what comes after me?

[aromanticasterisms]

the epic highs and lows of rereading your own writing to seek out parts you disliked and analyze Why you disliked them to do better in the future

[lynaferns]

Haven't looked at any DCA tag in... months now

I don't like the current fanon Sun with the sassyness people give him. It brings me into a depressive state lmao.

(not shaming, I'm just sad that I can't go in the tags anymore without finding most of the art being mean/threatening sun. And all I can do is not go in there anymore)

Well, idk if it toned down by now or if that's the norm now. I don't feel like finding out.

[ganondoodle]

everyones more than welcome to send me asks about stuff* btw, i know i havent been that good in answering, but i think thats largely bc i always want to do too much, like .. drawing entire character design sheets and everything and then never having the energy or motivation for it so it sits around like all of my hundreds of wips i never finished bc i lost energy/motivation, waiting for it to come back .. which might never happen (and i still dont know how to handle compliments ,, i might never will tbh- if i havent answered a compliment its very very likely i dont know how to properly convey my gratitude- feeling like theres no amount of things i can do or say to 'pay back'? ... kinda weird if you think about it .. but i am weird so what do i know jsklfnhsdk, i promise you i treasure it)

im pretty sure not everyone that sends an ask expects a drawing or multiple and pages long text right? thats my skewed perspective isnt it?

*stuff being like .. about my ocs, about my zelda comic, about the totk rewrite project, suggestions, ideas, rants too, kind of anything though im less likely to respond to personal things (and in case theres anyone newer to tumblr, asks dont have to be literal questions, you can write in those what you want, i like them alot bc its a lil message without the chat type of commitment to it ... im even worse at keeping up responding in chats (not intentionally .. my short term memory sucks) o3o)