#I think i posted it here before then deleted it

[drwhataretheodds]

GOOD MORNING! here is my attempt to recap everything we've found so far on deltarune.com

for those unaware, last night toby released a new newsletter giving information about deltarune's release date. he also released a clip of an alternate ending for the sweepstakes for if silence would've been chosen instead of freedom. (for those even MORE unaware, the spamton sweepstakes were a 2022 2-day event raising money for a charity where all sorts of hidden pages were shown on the DR website.

now, my (and many other people's) immediate reaction to seeing this, as well as this passage in the newsletter,

was that surely the site had been updated with some new content. and it has, a lot of it! and so this is my attempt to document everything so far.

/sweepstakes/silence/

this page features this short video revealing the alternate ending for the sweepstakes. in it, spamton a. spamton is simply wiped out of existence. not that exciting, but fun to see!

the page also includes a barren version of the main /sweepstakes website, with all the text deleted.

HOWEVER! at the bottom of this page, we can see two links. both of these lead to pages already found in the ORIGINAL run of the sweepstakes.

the rest of this will be under the cut, to avoid spoilers for those interested in exploring the site themselves.

/code

this page is accessible by clicking on the purple square. it was originally found from the main sweepstakes page, on the listing for noelles "fur-thentic cardboard box" from chapter 2. this link leads to the /catpetterz page of noelle's blog, which explains how the Cat Petterz 2 breeding system works. it ends in "Until one day..." which leads to /egg, continuing the story on the previous page. the link at end of /egg brings you to /code, which links back to /egg.

nothing seems to be actually changed on this version of the site, and it only serves as a way to get you back onto /egg.

/egg

this page has all the same text as the 2022 version of the site did, with one exception: the text "secret cats" is now a link! this link leads to /rain.

/rain

this page is an as of yet unseen post from noelle's blog. she describes the experience of staying home from school because of the rain, and a friend coming over to play cat petters. this friend is called "she," making it unlikely to be kris, and as this story takes place in her childhood, it's unlikely to be susie. the postscript says that her friend came over because "she thought that means that I was going to pet HER," which makes me think it might've been catti? if anyone else has any theories, let me know.

the rest of the page discovers another one of noelle's strange cat petters glitches. her "guide to the rarities of different cats" includes "blue ora (aura?)," "rock & roll," and "angle wing" and "super holy angle wing" are listed at 0% and 00000% respectively. another addition to the pile of mysterious connections between noelle and angel symbolism....

she also describes finding a cat that "lowered the amounts of point she had," making her die immediately. the MOST significant thing on this page by far though is a link to "try it yourself," which leads to a simulation of the cat petters minigame she described.

/rarecats

this page links to a cat collecting minigame. one of these green dancing cats will bounce around the screen like the DVD logo, and clicking on it gives an amount of points. the tab title simply displays the number of points so far.

cat-001.gif

this cat gives 10 points. it's probably the "normal" cat that noelle describes.

cat-002.gif

this cat gives 50 points. it's probably the "blue ora" cat that noelle describes.

cat-005.gif

this cat gives 250 points, and plays a guitar chord instead of the sparkling sounds that clicking the other 2 does. it's probably the "rock & roll" cat that noelle describes.

cat-006.gif

this cat gives 1000 points, and plays a very dramatic musical flourish. it also causes a window sprite to briefly appear before disappearing, as seen below.

this sprite links to the /windows page when clicked on. this cat is probably the "ANGLE WING!!!!" cat that noelle describes.

cat-007.gif

this cat gives 3000, and also generates a window sprite linking to the /windows page. it plays a more extended musical flourish as well. it is probably the "SUPER HOLY ANGlE WING!!!!" cat that noelle describes.

other cats

cat-003.gif

this cat looks like a yellow version of the "blue ora" cat. i don't think there's a way to get this cat in the game.

cat-004.gif

this cat looks like the "rock & roll" cat without the flame effect. i don't think there's a way to get this cat in the game.

cat-008.gif

this cat seems to be an even more powered version of the other two angel cats. it may be possible to get in game with even smaller odds, but since noelle's page only lists 2 "angle cats" i think it's unlikely.

cat-009.gif

this is a png of the yellow and pink smile that appears in spamton's basement. the inclusion of it here suggests to me that it is in fact some kind of "cheshire cat" character/allusion, like people have theorized before!

/windows

this page is simply the stained glass window sprite from /rarecats looped over and over. the tab title reads "Are you forgetting something?" each of these links to a page with the words "forest" "grow" "lost" "the" "where" and "would," in seemingly random order. an example of a few of these are

/wherewouldforestlostgrowthe /thegrowlostwouldforestwhere /thewheregrowwouldforestlost /growwherethelostforestwould

only one of these actually leads anywhere, the rest all lead to the "dogcheck" page which is the default for broken links on deltarune.com.

/lostwheretheforestwouldgrow

this page contains an image of a tree, overlayed with an edited version of the water image that seems to be a recurring motif in deltarune, used most recently in "jockington grows the beard". clicking on it plays a solemn piano chord. after clicking a few times, it instead links to /window. the tab title reads "ROOTS."

/window

this page contains the same repeating stained glass windows as /window did. the tab title once again reads "Are you forgetting something?" this time, each links to page with the letters "cdeehhilnooprrt", in seemingly random order. an example of a few of these are

/lonpecrrohedhit /pdolhehrnriceto /ecrorltipendhoh /creohnptredilho

once again, only one of them leads anywhere.

/thepoorchildren

this page is another black screen. this time, you have the ability to draw with the mouse. clicking creates a trail of white squares. the tab title reads "Therapy".

drawing in the middle of the image for around a minute causes a sprite of the "egg room" tree to slowly fade in.

after drawing for a bit, the tree will move to the front and become clickable. clicking on this just returns you to the /egg page mentioned earlier.

as far as i can see, this is everything to be found on the "noelle's blog" side of updates, the ones accessible from the purple square. unfortunately, tumblr has a limit for how many images i can include in a post, so the stuff from the other link i will include in a reblog! be sure to check it out, it's where stuff gets REALLY crazy!

[jihyoruri]

❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ HOUSE OF BALLOONS (richgirl!yn | chaewon x reader )

richgirl ⭢ that girl (she’s delicious) ⭢ idon’t smoke ⭢ pretty when you cry ⭢ homesick ⭢ super rich kids ⭢ girl, so confusing ⭢ take your mask off ⭢ carmen ⭢ untitled

— BONUNS CHAPTER | the dark sides of the moon family- the tales of the three young moons on a power trip (or slowly loosing their minds) the lost media of the young heirs that can never be found

SEPTEMBER 1st 2016

ARTICLE HEADLINE—“RICH KIDS GONE BAD??”

“a deeply unsettling video featuring moon yn, a first-year high school student, and her older brother moon jae, now in his final year, has started circulating online and it’s sparking serious concern.” click the video below ⭣

the shaky footage, clearly taken in secret, shows the two siblings in their school uniforms, each wearing a distinct chanel brooch. but this was no time to admire their luxury.

the video begins with a girl standing nervously in front of them. jae has his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. his words are too quiet to hear, but his body language says enough, sharp, intimidating, and cold.

he lets go of her chin and moves his hand to her shoulder in what looks like a comforting gesture, until he begins applying pressure, pushing her down until she’s sitting against the wall. he lets out a low laugh and walks away, leaving yn standing over the girl.

yn kneels in front of her, mimicking her brother’s earlier gesture. she lifts the girl’s chin again, but where jae’s aggression was clear, yn is harder to read calm, collected, and unreadable in a way that makes your skin crawl. she says something too quiet to hear, then smirks.

as she straightens up, she turns her head, looking directly into the camera. there's a soft gasp from behind the phone as the person filming realizes they’ve been caught. the video cuts off abruptly.

the internet explodes… and then goes quiet

but as quickly as the clip emerged, it vanished. users began reporting that links were broken, posts were mysteriously deleted, and accounts sharing the video were suddenly locked or suspended. some claimed the file had been “scrubbed” from search engines entirely. a few who claimed to have saved the video reported their files becoming corrupted.

with no formal statement from the moon family and no official media coverage, the moment began to fade from public memory. a handful of reddit threads and obscure blog posts remain, clinging to what little evidence is left, but for the most part, the world has moved on.

those who still remember are left with questions, unease, and an unsettling silence.

but who they to question what’s going with the moon family? whatever yn and jae did was completely warranted obviously.

THE VIDEO IN THIS ARTICLE IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

OCTOBER 31st 2016

ARTICLE HEADLINE—“WHO WOULD’VE THOUGHT THE YOUNGEST WOULD BE LIVING UP THE MOON NAME THE MOST?”

“a voice audio of who seems to be moon yn the youngest of the moon family talking to a teacher has people thinking only one thing, her father sure did raise her.” click the video below to hear the audio⭣

it starts off soft.

“sir…” her voice is sweet, almost delicate. “I’ve been feeling like this for a while, and my brother’s noticed it too. it seems like you’ve been treating us a little unfairly… because of our name? would i be correct if i said that?”

there’s a pause before the man responds, calm and condescending. “yes, you would.” his voice is firm, too confident. “the moons need humbling, and you prove that every day. I’ve been doing this since your oldest brother was here. he took it. so did jae. now it’s your turn. moons don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt, so suck it up, young lady.”

“oh…” she sounds hurt. quiet. small. but don’t be fooled.

“that’s too bad,” she says, and there’s a shift. some faint shuffling. her tone sharpens, losing its sweetness. “but here’s the thing… I’m not like my brothers. take that as a mental note.”

he doesn’t respond. silence.

“but anywho…” she sighs, fake and theatrical. “I should get going. it’s a shame we couldn’t come to better terms.”

then, her voice lowers to a near whisper. “but I guess everyone’s gonna love to hear about how much you like your female students.”

the laugh that follows is soft. too soft. and then, the audio cuts.

as of now, moon yn, is rumored to be a trainee under sm entertainment. insiders claim she’s been groomed for the spotlight her whole life, and based on this clip, it’s clear she knows how to perform, even when no cameras are supposed to be rolling.

but just like the infamous school hallway video of the moon siblings, this audio has vanished from the internet.

accounts that posted the original clip were suspended, links broken, files corrupted. forums discussing the audio were locked or mass reported. even users who claimed to have saved it privately say the file mysteriously disappeared or won’t play. no trace remains, and most who've heard it now speak of it like an urban legend, something you had to be online at the right time to witness.

and now, another piece of moon family history is buried.

but hey, she was so right, who was he to mistreat a moon?

THE AUDIO INCLUDED IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

FEBRUARY 5th 2017

ARTICLE HEADLINE — “ALL THREE MOON SIBLINGS CAUGHT IN DISTURBING LATE NIGHT FOTAGE.”

a leaked clip of daeun, jae, and yn leaving an exclusive bar has resurfaced whispers about the moon family and this time, no one was laughing. click the video below to watch ⭣

it’s dark, filmed from across the street, blurry, shaky, and obviously taken in secret.

the video opens with the glowing sign of the club, an exclusive bar only frequented by chaebols, heirs, and politicians' children. entry is invite only. drinks are never cheap. and minors are never allowed.

but in the video, all three moon siblings step out of the building. daeun, the eldest and the only one legally allowed to drink, walks out first in a sleek designer coat, jaw tight with exhaustion. jae follows, swaying slightly as he pushes his hair back and looks like he’s trying to hold back a glare. and yn the youngest walks behind them both, not stumbling, but not exactly steady either.

the three of them look like they’re falling apart in silence. no one speaks. no one smiles. the air is thick.

a black car pulls up, but none of them move toward it.

daeun turns to jae and says something low. he flinches. daeun throws his cigarette down. yn leans against the wall, staring at the pavement like it’s talking to her. none of them look like they want to be there. none of them look like they want to go home either.

and then, jae lashes out, not violently, but enough to startle. he kicks something near the curb, mutters something at yn that makes her roll her eyes, and she finally snaps back. it’s silent on video, but the way they speak, no hesitation, no filter, it’s clear the masks they wear in public aren’t on tonight.

daeun rubs his temples. he looks older than ever.

the three eventually pile into the car. the door slams shut. and the video ends.

why was this ever online?

the footage appeared online late one night under the caption “are the moons okay?” and in less than an hour, it was reposted hundreds of times. viewers weren’t shocked by the drinking, they were disturbed by what it revealed.

“daeun looks like he’s seen hell.” “yn isn’t old enough to drink and she looked the most checked out.” “jae’s energy is always so off. the way he moved… i can’t explain it but it made me sick.” “why did they just stand there like that for so long? they looked so… broken.”

and then it was gone.

just like the school hallway video. just like the teacher audio. accounts were suspended, posts wiped, and copies of the video corrupted or removed. users now speak about it like some sort of cursed file — if you didn’t see it when it dropped, you probably never will.

some believe sm’s legal team got involved now that yn is a trainee. others say the moon family themselves had it buried. and a few claim it was never supposed to exist at all.

THE VIDEO INCLUDED IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

[beartitled]

HIVE belongs to @braisedhoney

Canon HIVE blog 👉 @talesaboardthehive

‼️ATTENTION HIVE CREW‼️

I BRING U

✨HIVE megadrawing✨

Bc tumblr cannot comprehend the glory of our ship/silly image size and pixel limit >:(

You can view the quality version of the art with all the numbers 👉here👈

The quality of the og art gotten eaten a bit too, so here’s close ups :D

And of course 🐝CREDIT LIST(s)🐝

Thank u to everyone who participated in choosing the art style for it >:D

@blackkatdraws2 @insomniphic @demonicrhythms @mhokino @writtengalaxies @myhandshurts @bucketfullofstrawberries @stingraystray-ing @kuzann @aetermorte @otterlyinluv @atlantis-whale @4thwallbreakerdraws @fudgemallowmaniac @crimsomcrystal @tumbling-turmoil @dafry-shenanigans @xandyprojects @technologyvoid @idunnowhattowriteheretbh @ejsuperstar @bananatemilkshake @masky-the-mask @cj-is-causing-chaos-again @whatsupwithjinx @oswinunknown @twolitwicksinatrenchcoat @bootleg-behindthescenes @junebug-dot-com @notmefoina @derrangedhemlock

‼️Important note

If you recognise your number and would like to be credited (tumblr, name, etc.), please let me know!

This art contains numbers from old HIVE discord server (which was deleted), so some ppl’s @ might’ve been lost

🐻‍❄️< silly gathered all hivesona art she saw before server deletion, but forgor to screenshot the list of server members

You also free to stay anonymous of course 👍

I will wait some time before posting it on others socials to make sure the credits are alright 🫡

Also little reminder that the drawing is non canon, so we have a lil uniform fashion show in the corner there 💅 (all uniforms have to be grey colour)

Nöw

Lemme me do my usual rambling >:D

The giant took about 3 months +- (hard to count bc I worked on other projects in the same time💥)

Lemme tell u the planning was an actual investigation

(and chaos ofc)

(fun type of chaos :D)

Shoot out to Amari who helped me gather evidence🕵️ and Crimsom who helped me accidentally find a number I didn’t know about before❗️

Thank u guys you’re awesome ❤️

As I said before there are identified numbers, where I either only had a name/somebody’s vague pfp/a discord status 💥

I used standard anonymous crewmate design for ppl with no info

But tried to gather at least some info from old server screenshots for cues, like CR6548 Kura had different red emojis in their bio, so I gave them a rose strawberry crown and earrings 🌹🍓

For anonymous people with asks I added lil visual identifiers ✨

Part of me kinda wants to write a whole guide, but I think it’s more fun to discover things by yourself >:) *whisper* go reread #ney’s chatter

Fascinatingly enough, this drawing really enhanced HIVE as an eldritch abomination

This thing shifted and changed so many times

Constant edits 😭💥

When I planned out the composition I added the balcony as an extra space reserve for crewmembers

Ironically balcony stayed empty, bc I didn’t have enough ppl to fill it up with

Decided to put fandom characters that are associated with Captain’s blog and some alter egos

🗣️ HOWEVER 🗣️

When I finished lineart and posted Bumblebeedog comics

Ppl started creating new Hivesonas 🥺

Nobody can resist the Bumblebeedoggo 🐝

So had to improvise to put more and more ppl into different empty parts of the art 💥

🎶gotta add em all 🎶

This is actually my biggest work so far

Like literally

I usually draw on A3, but decided to go bigger and drew on A2 format instead

A2 is like 420 x 594 mm/ 16.5 x 23.4 inches (big boi)

Which was an absolute nightmare to scan 💥

But honestly really enjoyed the process, bc bigger format allows for more details

Also technical fun facts x2

Drawing program froze sometimes during colouring 💀

cue the anxious saves lmao

Anyway 👏

Hope you guys enjoyed the art and reading some of the backstage ❤️

Hey Ney >:)

Hope u like

Hit me up if u would like the link to 4K version of the megadrawing™️

[brinasheqrt]

Overthinking

pairings - sabrina carpenter x fem!reader

wc - 1.7k

warnings - mild angst, spiralling(?)

You tell yourself it’s fine. That people get busy. That performers on international tours probably don’t have the time to FaceTime their girlfriends every day. Or even every other day.

But when it becomes seven days—seven—with no call, not even a half-asleep voice note or a badly typed “love u,” something shifts. And your brain, ever the dramatic little gremlin that it is, decides to do what it does best:

Panic.

You’re not mad. That would be easier, cleaner, safer. You’re something worse. You’re convinced she’s slipping away.

It starts subtly, in the quiet moments.

You look at your phone a little too often. Open your messages just to stare at the last one she sent—a red heart, a week ago, after her Madrid show. You imagine her typing it fast, distracted. Maybe half-smiling. Maybe not.

Then you check her Instagram.

Bad move. Always a bad move.

She looks radiant, of course. She always does. New post from Berlin: her on stage, glitter under her eyes, hand reaching toward a sea of lights. Caption: “thank u for making my dreams real.”

Nothing about missing home. Nothing about missing you.

And that’s when your mind kicks into high gear.

Maybe she’s grown out of this. Maybe you were a good in-between. A soft place to land before the next chapter started. You, with your overthinking and your silent panics and your inability to just chill.

You hate how quickly you spiral, but there’s no stopping it now.

You sink into the couch and stare at the wall like it might blink first. It doesn’t. It’s blank. Still. Just like your phone.

You start replaying every conversation from the last few weeks. Was she distant last time you talked? Did she rush off the call? Did she sound bored? Did she stop saying “I love you” with that softness in her voice?

You remember the last call. She was in bed, face barely lit by her phone screen, eyes heavy. She smiled at you. Said she missed your voice. Said she wished you were next to her.

But maybe she didn’t mean it. Maybe she was just tired and saying what she thought you wanted to hear. Maybe the tour, the crowd, the adrenaline—it’s all more alive than you are to her now.

You’re not fun. You don’t dance like her backup singers or laugh at the right moments in interviews. You’re just here, in a quiet apartment, too many time zones away, loving her like it’s a full-time job.

Maybe that’s too much.

Maybe she needs something lighter.

You lie down sideways on the couch, blanket wrapped around you like armor. Your stomach hurts. Your chest is tight in that way it gets when your feelings outgrow your body and start pressing against your ribs, like they’re trying to break out.

You tell yourself you’re being dramatic. But that doesn’t help.

You wonder if she’s met someone new. Someone who understands the chaos of tour life. Someone beautiful and magnetic and not lying on a couch somewhere, crying into a hoodie that smells like her perfume.

You try to text her. Delete it. Try again.

You settle on: “Hey. Hope tour’s going okay.”

But you don’t send it.

It feels weak. Or maybe you do.

You end up typing and deleting so many times that your fingers go numb.

Eventually, you just stare at the wall again. White. Quiet. Unchanging.

It’s weird how loud a blank space can be.

You think about your life.

About how you used to be fine before her. Not happy, necessarily, but stable. Safe in your routines. And now? She’s rewired your entire nervous system and you don’t even know if she remembers to miss you anymore.

You think about all the people who say, “If they love you, you’ll know.”

You did know. At first. Every call, every kiss, every sleepy “baby, I don’t wanna hang up yet.” It was so clear. You never had to ask. Never had to wonder.

But now?

Now you feel like a question she hasn’t answered in days.

The wall still doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

You fall asleep at some point—restless, dreamless, curled in on yourself like a bruise.

And then your phone buzzes.

It’s 2:17 a.m.

Unknown number.

Your heart stops. Then jumps.

Voicemail.

Sabrina.

Your fingers shake as you hit play.

“Hey. Hi. Um… okay. I suck.”

She laughs, breathless and soft. The kind of laugh that only comes after running or crying or both.

“I’ve been trying to call all day and it just… didn’t happen. We had back-to-back shows and the WiFi’s garbage and my voice is gone and I miss you so much I almost cried during soundcheck.”

A pause. A long, shaky inhale.

“I know what your brain’s probably doing right now. You’re spiraling, aren’t you?”

You exhale sharply. God. She knows you.

“I hate that I let it get to this point. I hate that I disappeared. I didn’t mean to. I just—I didn’t want to call you when I only had five minutes. I wanted to really talk. But five minutes became a day, and then the days stacked up, and now it’s been a week and you probably think I don’t care.”

Another pause. Softer this time.

“I care. I love you. I love you so much it’s actually ridiculous. I’ve been falling asleep thinking about your voice, your face, the way you roll your eyes when I leave dishes in the sink.”

You smile, tears burning behind your eyes.

“I haven’t stopped loving you. Not even for a second. I just forgot how loud silence can sound when someone’s waiting on the other end.”

Her voice cracks a little.

“Please don’t let your mind tell you you’re too much. You’re perfectly much. You’re my favorite overthinker. My favorite everything.”

She exhales. “Okay, I have to go. But I’m gonna call again tomorrow. For real. We’ll talk as long as you want. Or say nothing. Whatever you need. I just… I love you. So much.”

The message ends.

And you just sit there. Staring at your phone.

The wall’s still there. Still blank. But somehow, it feels less cruel now.

You wrap the blanket tighter, curl up on the couch again, and let yourself cry.

Not because you’re broken. Not because you’re panicking.

But because someone who loves you knows what your brain does, and calls anyway.

⸻

[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, or 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 phot 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.

[velvetsserenity]

static obedience

dabi x hero!reader

wordcount: 1.5k

content warnings: NSFW, dubious consent, blackmail, manipulation, degradation, noncon undertones, power imbalance, secret relationship, emotional control, explicit sexual content

based on that one tumblr post i saw some weeks ago !! i can’t remember the user, but shout out to them.

no one knows.

not your team. not your handlers. not the people who cheer your name when you save their streets and smile with your mouth full of lies.

no one knows what you become when your phone vibrates at night and you see his name, or rather the lack of one, followed by a location pin and two words.

warehouse 39b. 11pm. alone.

that’s all it takes.

no threats. no reminders. just coordinates and a time, and suddenly the world tips on its axis and all that self-control you wear like armor starts to crack.

you always try to tell yourself no. that this time you’ll delete the message. that this time you’ll turn your phone off and keep your hands to yourself and stop answering him like a dog trained too well to break free.

but at 10:47pm, you’re already suiting up. already slipping out a back exit.

already praying no one asks questions you can’t answer.

the warehouse is rotting. it always is.

rust lines the walls. the stink of smoke and ash clings to the metal beams like it’s never left. the kind of place you’d normally raid for villain activity.

now it’s the place you come to kneel. and he’s always there first.

dabi doesn’t speak right away when he sees you.

just leans against a crate, dragging his cigarette slow between his fingers, eyes skimming your figure with the same lazy, hungry look he gave you the very first night.

the one where he found you alone on patrol and asked if your mouth worked as well as your quirk.

you should’ve arrested him. instead, you let him push you against the wall.

and you moaned.

“told myself you’d bail this time,” he says now, voice low and ruined, grin spreading like rot. “but i figured you were just wet somewhere else first.”

you say nothing. you never do here. because here, you don’t get to speak. not unless he wants you to.

and god, that’s the worst par, how much you need that silence. that place where your title doesn’t follow, where your strength means nothing.

where you’re just his.

you’re already lowering yourself to your knees, shame curling in your stomach like smoke. you hate yourself more every time. hate how he never even has to touch you first.

you’re the one crawling. you undo his zipper with trembling fingers. he doesn’t help. doesn’t need to.

you’ve done this enough to know what he likes. how deep to take him. how long to hold your breath before he growls your name and digs his fingers into your scalp.

“look at that,” he groans, cock thick on your tongue. “a fucking hero, gagging for villain cock like she was born for it.”

your cheeks burn hot, but you don’t stop. can’t stop. not when he sounds like that, wrecked and cruel and utterly in control.

he starts thrusting into your mouth slow, shallow at first, then faster, meaner. you choke. he moans.

“bet you touch yourself when you think about this. in your little dorm. under the covers while your teammates sleep. wonder what they’d say if they knew their golden girl liked to suck off the guy they’ve got a kill order on.”

tears slip from your lashes. he watches them fall, eyes half-lidded and satisfied.

when he finishes, he doesn’t even give you a warning. just buries himself in your throat and groans your name through his teeth.

you swallow becuase he expects you to. because he’ll laugh if you don’t.

and when he pulls out, panting, smug, sweat glinting on his neck, he tucks himself away and crouches in front of you—flicking his lighter open and closed while you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

“you’re sick,” he says softly. “but not as sick as me.” he kisses your forehead like it’s affection. you flinch, but you don’t leave.

not until he tells you to.

authors note: throw it back !!

plagiarism not authorized

[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

[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