#send me to jail

[sleeplesssmoll]

Do you think Vertin know about madam z and Constantine's association? Like how madam z could've prevented the breakaway incident.

A part of me thinks that Vertin is smart enough to figure it out years ago...

But like another part of me really likes the potential of this, the *angst* cause yes I am a edgy bitch. The mental breakdown of Vertin upon learning one of the most trusted person she had actually backstabbed her years ago. **The potential**

Cause let's be real madam z. if not else, guilty by association, if a person had a chance to stop a tsunami but decided not, even if she wasn't the one who caused the tsunami she still didn't stop it.

I think Vertin already forgave her. She mentioned she knew Madam Z wasn't part of the game Constantine was playing. In a way, Madam Z is like her. They are both pawns, however, they have grander plans. Madam Z has also been looking out for Vertin in a way which we can see in story but also in the amount of respect Vertin speaks to her with.

What I wonder, is how does Madam Z feel about it? Does it haunt her? Does she ever feel the guilt when she looks at Vertin? Does she remember the way Vertin sank to the floor in the rain after the Storm took her friends?

Vertin may have forgive Madam Z, but does Madam Z forgive herself for not acting sooner?

This also makes me think of Vertin's experiment with Regulus. She wasn’t sure if it'd work and she never got a chance to explain to Regulus what she was up to (because of Sonetto's interference and Regulus running away). Regulus could have been erased! She is willing to make those insane, drastic measures...kinda like Constantine tbh...BUT she does it with consent and considers other people's well-being in her scheme. She actually cares about the lives that get tangled up in her tragic story.

[my3imaginary3wonderland]

I UNDERSTOOD WHATS WRONG WITH ME

I couldnt say why I like him until now

[bucketfullofstrawberries]

Ahahaha I'm so normal about him I don't know what you mean haha please don't steal this man from me i'm clinging onto him as emotional support even though he'd probably fling me across a room.

[lopez-richter-fangirl]

I may not have a replay number but I realised I could check how much time I spent on photos today and I wish I hadn’t looked because this is just EMBARRASSING 😭

[neuvettel]

[birrdies]

new etho merch just dropped (i’ve never seen a single episode of naruto. send help.)

[thatlovinfeelin]

Do I drop part six of flightless bird

[thatmivy]

Saw FNAF and then stayed up all night to draw... well... iykyk

[shirks-all-responsibilities]

Me: What would happen if I slowed *that moment* down...

Me: 👀👀👀 And um...what if I, um, looped it?

🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵 I...am having THOTS...and thinking about...SITUATIONS...and I... 😵‍💫

Pedro Pascal as Joel Miller in The Last of Us, HBO (Episode 9)

[you-are-my-neverland]

i miss writeblr. i really want to be active on here again, but i simply haven’t been writing lately, despite the number of ideas i’ve fleshed out. xx

[ilikedetectives]

Dame Aylin

[z0mbi-dog]

data collection 2: electric boogaloo

[mulderscully]

4.13 | 4.17

[kyurochurro]

saw this image on Pinterest and the pose gave me such riker vibes that I just HAD to draw it as him and troi HEHEHE

[xamaxenta]

heat or something

[morverenmaybewrites]

A Crown of Bone Preview

Pairing: Changeling! Reader x Fae Lord! Zhongli

Imagine being a changeling child and living your life in quiet yearning. 

It is a life of hollow hunger and a longing for something you cannot quite name. 

You had been found in the dead of winter, or so your mother tells you, a half-fey child abandoned in a snowbank. She has told you this story many times before. Sometimes in fond reminiscence, more often in hushed whispers, her eyes fearful and haunted as she recalled your unnatural stillness, the way the snowflakes that landed on your skin did not melt, 

You don’t answer whenever she tells these stories; she is already frightened enough. You do not tell her that while you had been found during winter, your first memories were of spring. 

Except it is not the spring of Snezhnaya, where you had been raised. It is not the cold sun, finally rising after months of not showing its face. Nor is it the first tentative buds of snowdrops, pushing their way up from the melting snow.

The spring you remember is brilliant, bursting with vivid color. You remember walking underneath trees whose leaves were the color of fire, you remember the taste of wine against your tongue. 

And sometimes, in those odd moments between dreaming and waking, you would remember seeing the gold of someone’s eyes and the curve of black, gleaming bone. 

You do not mention this to your mother, who is already half-afraid of you. Nor to your father, who gazes at you with a resigned sort of acceptance. 

Instead, you keep it to yourself, tucked away against the curve of your ribs, right next to your slow-beating heart. A secret that is half-yearning and half-memory: someone had left you there in that snowbank, and there are days that you think that they did not do so willingly.