#tell me what to tag this if i tagged it wrong but its a

[novaursa]

The Crown of Winter Roses (Continuation)

- Summary: Rhaegar starts the Rebellion by stealing his sister, you.

- Paring: sister!reader/Rhaegar Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: 3

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The great hall of the Red Keep was filled with dread, the air crackling with a malevolent energy as King Aerys II Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne, his gaze sharp and manic beneath the dark shadows that clung to his face. The great doors to the throne room swung open, and Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell strode forward, his son Brandon a step behind him, his face set in grim determination. The king's court, filled with lords and courtiers, watched with bated breath, the silence thick and oppressive.

Rickard’s voice boomed across the hall as he spoke, his tone unwavering. “Your Grace, I have come to reclaim Princess Y/N. My son, Brandon’s betrothed. Prince Rhaegar has abducted her, stolen her from our house and broken the laws of hospitality and honor. I demand that he be returned to face justice.”

The words hung in the air, a challenge thrown down like a gauntlet. Aerys’s lips curled into a twisted smile, his eyes flicking between the Starks and the courtiers around him. The Iron Throne loomed above, its jagged steel blades glinting in the torchlight, the perfect symbol of his unstable reign.

“You demand?” Aerys’s voice was a whisper, soft and deadly. He leaned forward, his fingers digging into the arms of his throne, nails scraping against the metal. “You dare come into my hall and make demands of your king?”

Brandon stepped forward, his jaw clenched, his anger barely held in check. “It’s not a demand, it’s justice. Your son—”

“My son?” Aerys interrupted, his voice rising to a shriek. “My son is your prince, the rightful heir to this throne, and you presume to tell me what justice is? You think you can come into my Red Keep and command the king?”

Rickard held up a hand, trying to calm his son. “Your Grace, Rhaegar has violated the sacred guest right. He has dishonored my house, taken what is mine. Return the princess, and we will have peace.”

Aerys’s laughter rang out, sharp and high, a sound that echoed through the chamber like the screeching of a dying bird. “Peace?” he sneered, his eyes wide with madness. “Peace, you say, while you conspire against me? While your son dares to speak to his king as if he were some common man? You think you can dictate terms to the dragon? The dragon!” He slammed his fist against the armrest, his face twisted in fury.

The court watched, frozen in fear and fascination. Aerys was a king on the edge of madness, a thin thread holding him between reason and insanity. Any wrong word, any slight misstep, could send him spiraling into violence.

“You come here,” Aerys hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper, “demanding the return of what you claim is yours, when it is you who have failed. You let my daughter to be taken. You failed to protect her, and now you think you can blame me? You think you can blame my son?” He leaned back, his gaze flicking to the Kingsguard standing near him. “Tell me, Lord Stark, how do you answer for your own failure?”

Rickard’s face was a mask of controlled rage. “Princess Y/N was under the protection of my house. It is your son who—”

“Enough!” Aerys screamed, his voice cracking like a whip. “I will not be lectured by a northern fool who cannot even guard my blood!” His eyes narrowed, gleaming with malice. “You would dare come here, into my hall, to accuse my son, my heir, of crimes against you? Against you? You think your blood is worth more than a dragon’s?”

Brandon’s fists were clenched, his knuckles white. “Your son stole her. He—”

“He took what was his,” Aerys snapped, cutting him off. “What is yours? What belongs to a wolf, a northern beast, that my son would have to steal? You dare speak of rights and honor while you breathe dragon’s air?”

The silence in the hall was suffocating, the tension wound so tight it seemed ready to snap. Then Aerys raised his hand, a signal almost casual in its execution, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

“Take them,” he said, his voice calm, almost serene. “Take them both.”

Brandon’s eyes widened in disbelief as two Kingsguard knights stepped forward, their faces impassive beneath their helms. They grabbed him, their grip ironclad, and dragged him forward. He struggled, shouting curses, but they held him fast. Rickard, too, was seized, his hands pulled behind his back, his face a mask of rage and disbelief.

Aerys watched them with a smile that was almost gentle, almost tender. “So brave,” he mused, his voice soft. “So proud. You came here for justice, didn’t you? To protect what is yours, to ‘save’ my daughter. But you failed. You failed.”

A heavy rope of Tyroshi silk was brought forth, bright and gaudy, the colors obscene against the grimness of the scene. It was looped around Brandon’s neck, the end tossed over the rafters high above. The Kingsguard held it taut, and Brandon’s eyes went wide with fear as he understood what was happening.

“Your son will fight for you, Lord Stark,” Aerys said, his voice filled with a hideous mockery. “He will fight, but not with sword and shield. He will fight to reach you, to save you. And when he fails, you will both know the price of defying your king.”

Rickard struggled, his voice a roar of defiance as he strained against his captors. “You madman! You coward! Release him! This is murder!”

Aerys ignored him, his gaze fixed on Brandon. “And you, boy. You will learn what it means to defy your king. You will learn that you are nothing. Nothing but a dog, leashed to a northern lord who cannot even keep his family safe.”

He nodded to the men holding the rope, and they began to pull. Brandon was lifted off the ground, his feet kicking wildly as the noose tightened around his throat. His hands reached out, grasping desperately for his father, his eyes wide with terror. He clawed at the rope, his face turning red, then purple, as he struggled for breath.

The horror of it was visible, the court watching in stunned silence as Brandon dangled, his life slipping away inch by inch. And below him, Rickard Stark, bound and helpless, watched with a son’s agony, his face contorted with grief and rage.

Then, as Brandon’s struggles grew weaker, Aerys clapped his hands. “Bring the fire,” he ordered, his voice as light as if he were asking for wine.

The doors at the side of the hall opened, and a group of men in robes, their faces hidden by masks, entered, bearing a cauldron of green, glowing liquid. Wildfire. The hall erupted in cries of shock and fear, the courtiers shrinking back as the alchemists approached.

“Burn him,” Aerys commanded, his eyes gleaming with a mad light. “Burn the wolf, and let the cub choke on his own failure.”

The alchemists obeyed, their hands moving with practiced ease as they poured the wildfire over Rickard’s bound form. The green flames caught instantly, a roaring inferno that engulfed him, his screams piercing the air as the fire devoured him. The smell of burning flesh filled the hall, acrid and suffocating.

Brandon thrashed, his face a mask of agony as he tried to reach his father, his hands grasping at the air, his body convulsing as the rope tightened around his neck. But it was hopeless. His struggles grew weaker, his breath coming in choked, desperate gasps. And still, he fought, reaching, always reaching, until finally, his body went limp, hanging lifelessly from the rafters above.

The silence that followed was absolute, the court stunned into silence by the brutal spectacle they had witnessed. Aerys sat back, his smile serene, his eyes bright with satisfaction.

“Take him down,” he said softly, his voice carrying through the hall like a death knell. “Let the North know what happens when they defy their king.”

As Brandon's body was cut down, as the hall emptied in a rush of fear and horror, Aerys leaned back on the Iron Throne, his fingers drumming against the cold steel. He had shown them. He had shown them all. He was the king, and no one, not even a Stark, would ever dare to challenge his rule again.

And somewhere, far to the north, the winds of rebellion began to stir.

The sea was dark, the waves rolling gently beneath the ship as it cut through the water, bound for Essos. The night sky stretched above, a vast, silent expanse of stars, the moonlight casting a silvery glow over the deck. Rhaegar stood at the prow, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but his thoughts were far away, tangled in the events that had brought him to this point.

He had been a fool. A selfish, reckless fool. The rebellion had erupted faster than he had anticipated, a wildfire spreading across the realm. The North, the Stormlands, the Riverlands—they had all risen against him, against his father, against everything that House Targaryen had built. And all because of what he had done. Because of what he had taken.

His hands gripped the railing, the wood rough beneath his fingers. He could still see you as you had been when he had stolen you away, your face pale and drawn, the shock and disbelief in your eyes. You had not fought him, not truly. There had been a moment, a single, heart-wrenching moment, when you had looked at him, and he had seen the pain in your eyes, the understanding of what he was doing. And still, you had come with him. You had let him take you, had let him ruin everything.

He turned, his gaze drifting toward the small cabin where you slept. The lantern’s soft glow spilled through the open doorway, casting a gentle light over your sleeping form. You were curled on the narrow bed, your silver hair spread like a halo around your face, your hands resting protectively over the slight swell of your belly.

His child. His and yours. The knowledge filled him with a strange, bittersweet ache. He had always dreamed of this, of you by his side, of a family that was yours and his alone. But not like this. Never like this.

He took a step closer, his heart heavy as he looked at you. You had accepted your fate, he knew that. There was no anger in your eyes anymore, no bitterness, no resentment. Only a quiet resignation, a calm acceptance of the path he had forced upon you. You spoke little now, your words soft and measured, your gaze distant, as if you were already somewhere else, far from him, far from this life he had thrust upon you.

He wanted to reach out, to touch you, to reassure you that everything would be alright, but he knew that would be a lie. Nothing was alright. The realm was tearing itself apart, and here he was, fleeing like a coward, with the sister he had stolen, the sister he had loved so desperately that he had destroyed everything for her.

He moved to the doorway, his shadow falling over you. You stirred, a soft murmur escaping your lips, but you did not wake. He watched the rise and fall of your chest, the gentle rhythm of your breathing, and felt his heart twist with a pain so sharp it nearly brought him to his knees.

What had he done? He had thought he was acting for love, for destiny, for the future of their house. He had convinced himself that this was the only way, that you were meant to be his, that together you would fulfill the prophecy that had haunted his dreams for so long. But now, looking at you, so peaceful and yet so far away, he wondered if he had only been lying to himself, if he had only ever been trying to justify his own desires, his own selfish need to possess you.

He stepped inside, the boards creaking softly under his weight. You shifted again, your hand moving slightly over your belly, as if instinctively protecting the life growing within you. His child. His blood, mingled with yours. A Targaryen child, born of fire and blood, of passion and pain.

He sank into the chair beside the bed, his eyes never leaving your face. You were so beautiful, even now, even like this. He remembered you as a child, remembered holding you in his arms, watching you grow, watching you become the woman you were now. He had loved you then, with a love that had been pure, innocent. And then, as you had grown, that love had changed, had deepened, had become something darker, something that had driven him to do the unthinkable.

He reached out, his hand hovering just above your cheek, afraid to touch, afraid to break the fragile peace of your sleep. He wanted to apologize, wanted to beg for your forgiveness, but the words would not come. How could he ask for forgiveness for something so monstrous? How could he ask you to absolve him for the ruin he had brought upon you, upon himself, upon the realm?

The ship rocked gently, the waves lapping against the hull, the sound a soft, mournful lullaby. He closed his eyes, his hand still hovering above you, and let himself imagine, just for a moment, that things were different. That this was not a flight from the war he had started, but a voyage to a new life, a life where you could be happy, where you could be free.

But that was a fantasy, a cruel, mocking illusion. The reality was this: he had taken you, had torn you from your home, from the family that loved you, from the life you had known. He had made you his prisoner, bound you to him with chains of love and duty and fear. And now, you were carrying his child, a child that would be born into a world of chaos and bloodshed, a child that would bear the weight of his sins.

He opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on your face. You were still sleeping, your expression serene, your breath soft and steady. You had accepted this, accepted him, even though he did not deserve it, even though he had given you no choice. You had not fought him, had not tried to flee, even when the truth of what he had done had become clear. You had simply looked at him with those eyes, those eyes that had always seen too much, and had nodded, had come with him.

He wanted to believe that you loved him, that somewhere, beneath the layers of pain and betrayal, there was still a part of you that loved him as he loved you. But he knew that was a lie. You were here because he had forced you to be, because he had taken what he wanted, regardless of the cost.

The ship shuddered as it hit a wave, the motion rocking you gently. He watched as you sighed in your sleep, your hand tightening slightly over your belly. He felt a surge of protectiveness, a fierce, almost desperate need to keep you safe, to shield you and the child you carried from the storm that was coming.

But how could he protect you from what he had unleashed? How could he keep you safe when he had brought the fury of the realm down upon them? Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn—they were all coming for him, coming for you, and he knew that they would not rest until they had torn him from the throne, until they had destroyed everything he had tried to build.

He leaned forward, his head in his hands, his heart heavy with a guilt that threatened to crush him. He had thought he was saving you, had thought he was doing what was right, what was necessary. But now, he could see that he had only ever been trying to save himself, to save the dream of you that had haunted him for so long.

He looked up at you again, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, the curve of your lips, the way your hair fell across the pillow. You were his, and he was yours, bound together by a love that had been twisted and broken by the choices he had made. He had wanted to be your protector, your lover, your king. But now, he was only your jailer, the man who had stolen your freedom, who had stolen your life.

He stood, the movement slow, as if his body were weighed down by the burden of his guilt. He took one last look at you, at the woman he had loved and ruined, and then turned away, his steps heavy as he made his way to the door.

Outside, the wind was cold, the night air sharp against his skin. He leaned against the railing, his gaze fixed on the dark, endless sea. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, lay the future he had imagined, the future he had thought he could build with you. But now, all he could see was darkness, all he could feel was the weight of the choices he had made, the lives he had destroyed.

He closed his eyes, his hands gripping the railing, and let the wind whip around him, the cold biting into his skin. He had done this. He had set this course. And now, he must see it through, no matter the cost.

No matter the price he would have to pay, no matter the blood that would be spilled, he would keep you safe. He would protect you and the child you carried, even if it meant giving up everything else, even if it meant losing the crown, the throne, his life.

For you, he would do anything. Even if you never forgave him, even if you never loved him again, he would do anything to keep you safe. Because that was all he had left now. That was all that mattered.

He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs, and turned back toward the cabin. You were still sleeping, still so beautiful, so peaceful. He would watch over you, would guard you with his life. And when the time came, when the storm finally broke, he would face it, for you, for the child, for the love he had destroyed but could never let go.

[fleshengine]

What happened to your friend does sound awful, but it doesn't sound like something that's actually unique to trans women. Someone making false claims after a bad breakup and people believing claims of victimization are fairly normal occurrences across the board, especially since people do generally believe it's praxis to believe all victims immediately. The fact that your friends came around in a matter of days is a better than average result.

Hi Velvet, I think this is the second or third time you've come on to one of my posts where I talked about transmisogyny and tagged it as such. Those posts don't get a ton of traction, do you just like... patrol the transmisogyny tag or something?

Anyway I do not feel a need to clarrify myself to you. But I will add that there were a lot of details that I didn't add to the post, stuff I will not be discussing, that solidifies my belief that it was an example of transmisogyny. I'm not at liberty to talk about some of it, and for the rest I honestly just do not care enough to defend myself to you. I lived my life and you read a rant about it.

That aside, do you know how many transfems I know who have been made out to be rapists/mentally ill after they broke up with their partners? Do you want me to list all the normal occurences across the board that have made me personally terrified to show others intimacy? Why is it that when someone says "that trans girl is a rapist!" people believe her but when trans girls say "we keep getting called rapists, this sucks" we get people like you telling us that it's normal to be made out into a charicature and systematically cut off from your entire social group?

Now that I've got that out of the way, let's dig into your word choice.

"What happened to your friend" this voice is so passive it's going 45 in a 50. "What that guy did to your friend" is much more direct and active, that's a sentence fragment that drinks orange juice with its breakfast. I probably would've accepted "what was done to your friend" because even though it's passive it still emphasizes that someone did something wrong. But you didn't even do that. Instead you completely removed the idea of fault from the equation, no one did it, nothing caused it, it was divine intervention that my friend nearly lost their entire support network.

"does sound awful" it doesn't sound like anything. It is awful, through and through. I hate the man that did it even though my friend has forgiven him.

"better than average result" average what? Messy breakup or transfem targetting rumor mill? It was a better than average result, I can attest to the average and it's not good. I'm glad I was there to sway people back to reality.

Moving on, you only addressed one of the two things I mentioned. I said "break up with a trans woman and unperson her" and "unperson any trans woman who's minorly annoying." You completely skipped the whole "a guy tried to tell people I was a gaslighter because I asked him to stop calling my friend a sociopath" bit. The post wasn't even saying that what happened was specifically transmisogynistic (it was), I was literally just talking about how stuff I was hearing mapped onto my life.

I also find it interesting, how you put this in an ask instead of a reblog. A reblog puts whatever I said on your account, an account I've heard you regularly use to support transmisogynists. I'm happy to talk to you more, genuinely I like to argue and you seem interesting enough. But I want what I say on your account. I'm not going to respond to another ask or reblog on this one until you reblog the original. Here I even got you a link.

[firstprincehornyramblings]

Hello yall! I'm getting a head start and queueing this extra early (its technically Wednesday for me right now) Once again, under the cut, for length reasons, and nsfw reasons <3

------------- PWP Dom Henry and Free Use Alex

“You are not going to cum yet, Alexander. Calm down,” the blond hissed, “Or call a color,” he added in a quiet voice. “N-no, I can.. I can calm down,” Alex whined, “That’s so cold,” his voice was soft and pathetic, “I just wanted to cum.” “But you won’t, not till I say you can, not till I’m done with you,” Henry reiterated, “Because you want to be good for me. And Alex? You are a good boy, you’re the best boy, and you are not going to let me down.” “I’m good, I’ll be good for you… W-wanna be good for you so bad, Hen,” Alex cried.   “That’s what I thought,” Henry purred, “Just a moment more,” he said before leaning closer to press a kiss to the side of Alex’s thigh, “Let’s get those balls nice and cold, it’ll take you a minute to warm up, hm? That should take some of the need away.” “Yeah,” Alex nearly sobbed, but his cheeks were dry, no tears falling, “Thank you for helping me be a good boy.”

---

GEORGE THOUGHTS (Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this fic are those of George Villier’s and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of the author.)

“Good boy, you’re my favorite,” it was whispered against a sweat soaked temple, and for the day at least it was true. His hand fell to his own thigh, fingers wiping through the slick there and bringing them to his own lips. He sucked at those fingers, salt and bitterness on his tongue, his opposite hand falling to the pet still kissing his neck. With one shove he pushed them aside, “Wine,” he murmured against his own fingers. He couldn’t help but smile hearing ‘yes master’ leave the young woman’s lips. A delicate hand placed behind his head, leaning it up as a cup was placed to his lips, wine poured into his mouth. Sweetness burned down his throat as he tilted his chin up to signal he was finished drinking. That lover was rewarded with a hard kiss, the last swallow of wine in his mouth pushed into hers, their tongues intertwining as vermillion ran down their chins.

--- Client Alex and Hairstylist Hen

“W-wait, what?” Alex stammered, “You’re…leaving? You’re not going to even let me get you off?” He was pulling himself off that wall some but resting a hand behind his back for steadiness. “But wait, didn’t you come here to like- prove me wrong? You have to do that, right?” he asked, clearly grasping for straws. “Ah, right, smart thinking,” Henry nodded, undoing his own pants, and lifting his shirt half up. It was just enough for Alex to see the soft tummy that was creating a slight muffin top above those pants. The brunette found it entirely grabbable, but Henry didn’t seem to notice the intense stare. Instead, he pushed the front of his pants and underwear down, resting them on the base of his own cock. He was visibly hard, and yet all he did was show Alex the tawny pubic hair there, “Blond, see, you were wrong, I was being honest,” he hummed, before fixing his pants into place again. Alex was still staring in awe, as if everything happening amazed him, “I… you’re really leaving? What if I say that you seem like the kind of guy who’d dye your pubes too?” “Then I’d tell you to fuck off,” the blond said matter-of-factly.

YAY TAGS (no pressure tags darlings)

@taste-thewaste @eusuntgratie @henrysfox @mikibwrites

@softboynick @catdadacd @sheepywritesfics @henryspearl

@basil-bird @caressthosecheekbones @henfox @tailsbeth-writes

@onthewaytosomewhere @anti-homophobia-cheese @thighzp + literally anyone else I'm sleepy and forgot, or anyone who sees this and wants to tag me, I love reading yall's stuff. <3

[white-weasel]

Funniest bit of the dnd movie is Xenk clearly being an NPC the DM introduced for lore and plot purposes who’s a competent fighter because of course he is, his reputation and backstory require it. But whoopsies the DM made him too powerful, the whole party likes him, and now they want him to come with to fight the BBEG which will completely and utterly fuck up the encounter balance

So instead of there being any actual plot reason he can’t join Xenk just says “I can’t. This is something only you can do.” And then walks off, never to interact with the party again because the DM just knows those little shits will find a way to use their OP creation against them

[basslinegrave]

pin-up

b&w originals

[lbhslefttiddie]

youve heard of sex flowers get ready for the flower that makes you into a celestial shoujo herione complete with particle effects you cannot turn the fuck off and creates a wifebeam so powerful it can incapacitate and maim and keeps making you burst into tears and fall on your ass which makes the wifebeam More Powerful and you also cannot turn this off either. and is also still, sort of, a sex flower

from one of my favorite fanfictions, Celestial Afterglow by elanor_pam, a fic that defies description in the best possible way

[elizabethzoopzoop986]

I hate this fucking manga how am I supposed to have a life and write essays about shit when I sit down start to think and all that comes to mind is some gay little toilet freaks istg it’s a hard knock life

[ganondoodle]

correct me if im wrong but im PRETTY sure that for something to be a proper sequel it needs more than literally just reusing the same world and character models and slightly altering their design or adding an ability (that they got somwhere in between which isnt shown nor elaborated on either while previous abilities or interests/knowledge vanish)

made the mistake of saying that really totk isnt a sequel bc it doesnt build on, nor expand nor elaborate nor continue anything from botw, its the same preset of basic things like ... world and character models and tells an entirely different story utterly disconnected from anything botw, which it not only acts like it never happened (aside from like one dialog which is not enough for me when everyone else has literally forgotten everything and tbh feels more like a reference thats actually a slap and laugh in your face) but often times actively contradicts it, like a different version of the same thing

which is called an alternative universe

half of the reasons why i despise totk is bc i wanted, expected and was TOLD its a sequel when it isnt, can you really blame me for being disappointed and frustrated when i was told its a sequel, which should build on established stuff, to a game and its lore i deeply cared about and then get an alternative universe game that has nothing to do with the one i cared about except wear its face and STILL get told its a sequel even just by simply reusing models

[bittwitchy]

Sebastian Stan. in a bathtub, which is all I actually got out of this movie.

[shaadowmilkcookie]

hi yall! todays warmup! one artist on twitter always draws his hat as a mouth of sorts, but i haven’t seen them in a while, and i missed it.

EDIT i found the artist i stole it from! @ akire_san_ on twitter! they do have an nsfw warning, so only for the older folks. hats off to them for the fun design!

[iguessitsjustme]

This is off the top of my head of shows that should have had some sort of poly but instead were cowards. (im kidding i love these shows pls don’t shoot me)

[oceanwithouthermoon]

ive been unhealthily fixated on kubosai for the past few weeks, i just have no idea how to put it into words. kuboyasu aren and saiki kusuo are in love btw

[deoidesign]

hi, I remembered about the ask about the vampire abilities (time travel, walking in the sun, compulsion) and I need to ask, what are the werewolf abilities?

and Steve own abilities since he can become a giant werebat and being the most convincing conman

Hi there!

So, werewolves can shapeshift into canines of course. But they also heal faster than humans, are stronger than humans, and they have a generally better sense of smell and hearing!

I also like to think they can see in the dark pretty well, too.

Steve specifically has... Well, his stuff is kind of messy. Werewolves and their relation to the moon and its cycle combined with vampires relationship to time led him to being unable to control his time travel, and instead it's forced around the cycle of the moon. This sort of goes with everything. He doesn't need blood to do things, but the werebat is insatiably hungry. It's extremely powerful, but uncontrollable. He doesn't need permission to enter a residence, but he also is incapable of compelling people.

The sort of thematic representation of this is all about his general place in the story as someone who has absolutely no choice, and that frustration of your agency being taken from you.

Him being a 'convincing conman' is a survival tactic, to be honest. It can make the difference between eating and not. With his only real benefit from all this supernatural upheaval being heightened senses, he's just become really observational and is able to read a room and adapt to it immediately. It's about the only thing that's kept him alive, besides the werebat... so really, it's the only thing that's kept the werebat out.

Some of this is admittedly getting into spoiler territory, though, but I do intend to canonize some things! I'm happy to delve more into the specifics once it's happened :)

[graveyardbong]

What if Adora Belle Dearheart is actually a drag name and we've been sleeping her being a Drag Queen the whole time

[starwarjotta]

there’s a special place in hell for people who take the time and go through the effort of leaving negative comments on fanfics, like-- what is wrong with you, what is LEGITIMATELY wrong with you? I’m so angry and so devastated on behalf of everyone who has been harrassed like this and who is going through something like this right now. There’s no excuse for shitty behavior - if you intentionally leave a hurtful comment on something someone created and put out there for other people’s enjoyement, for free, after spending probably HOURS if not WEEKS or MONTHS or longer on it, you’re an incredibly shitty, disgusting, miserable waste of space of a person be better

[ganondoodle]

i often really do feel like an .. unwanted part of the fandom, i dont draw beautiful landscapes, i have unpopular but strong opinions im constantly annoying about and rarely change, dont like/dont draw the pretty young popular twinks and hot gurls to fanboi over nor do i turn characters into one, the opposite moreso, draw only one ship no ones heard of really, got little energy to interact with the few people that are nice to me and send me asks so it probably looks like im ignoring everyone and unfortunately but still rarely get so stressed i get overwhelmed and emotional about pehaps seemingly minor things and spiral almost into a breakdown feeling super embarrassed about it afterwards but the damage is already done and i look like a freak or agressive weirdo