#I haven't been here that much lately but here it is folks!

[jaegerists]

I posted 3,659 times in 2022

90 posts created (2%)

3,569 posts reblogged (98%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@queenrojpag

@kyojuuros

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I tagged 3,655 of my posts in 2022

#q - 3,225 posts

#fanart - 686 posts

#snk - 587 posts

#bnha - 358 posts

#jujutsu kaisen - 329 posts

#kny - 299 posts

#haikyuu!! - 147 posts

#eren jaeger - 134 posts

#snk spoilers - 119 posts

#levi - 116 posts

Longest Tag: 128 characters

#none of my friends are into bnha and thus i can't complain about how the fandom reaction about everything irritates me to no end

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

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1,536 notes - Posted March 16, 2022

#4

I have to become a hero everyone can depend on.

happy birthday, todoroki shoto!

1,605 notes - Posted January 11, 2022

#3

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1,780 notes - Posted April 20, 2022

#2

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2,094 notes - Posted March 30, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

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2,179 notes - Posted January 3, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[eregyrn-falls]

BYEEE! MULTI-VERSE COLLECTION by Studio Bad Egg

Strap in, folks! This is going to be a long one!

Studio Bad Egg is currently running another campaign for merch related to Gravity Falls, The Owl House, and Amphibia. Some of the items are cross-overs between the three shows (well... primarily the Ford figure; more on that in a bit).

You can find ALL of the info at the live campaign page on Indiegogo.

You'll find turn-around videos of some of the merch at the bottom of this post.

Here's the copy from the Indiegogo page: Welcome to the BYEEE collection, Studio Bad Egg’s big send-off, developed as a fan-made tribute to the pop-culture-defining trio of Dana Terrace, Matt Braly, and Alex Hirsch. In this explosive merging of worlds, we say goodbye to the family of shows that have inspired us from day one with a huge, unofficial merchandise campaign the likes of which you’ve never seen before! That’s right, this fan merch campaign is dedicated to The Owl House, Amphibia and Gravity Falls - finally meeting and rubbing shoulders after years of staring at each other from across TV schedules.  This enormous cult fan merch campaign embodies the spirit of love, acceptance and wonder that each series represents - and passes that message onto you from us, as we bid farewell and move onto pastures new. Conceived and concepted by Studio Bad Egg’s Richmond Parakhen, with designs and illustrations by Kyri45, with unique stories by Jordan 'Grunkle Jam' Mooney, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see three much-loved realms merge in the crossover event of the century! This is a completely fan-made tribute collection, with absolutely no involvement from the actual creators or major animation studios.  As a result, we hope we don’t have to say this, but - THIS IS NOT CANON! Promise!! WE ARE SERIOUS!!!

As you can see in the top image, they are fully-funded already, and then some. So all stretch goals seem to have been met.

Here's a list of what's available, and the costs:

Portal Ford fig 8" (with Portal, Sprig Plantar, and Palismen) - $300 Brass Tacks Stan fig 8" - $180 Cipher Shack pin 2.25" - $25 Triangular enamel pins - $60 ea. Triangular enamel pins - 4 pin set - $240 BYEEE! Portal Print - $40 Anne Boonchuy fig 6" - $85 Sasha Waybright fig 6" - $85 Darcy fig 6" - $85 Bill in Another Life (Bipper) fig 5" - $80 Mabel Glitter Knight fig 5" - $85 Harpy Eda & Harpy Lilith pin 2.75" - $? Hooty Backpack fig 6" w/ extra faces - $? Kind Robot fig 8" - $?

(The Harpies pin, and the Hooty figure, haven't been posted with a price yet that I can see. I would expect the Hooty fig to cost similar to the Stan and Ford figs, or between them - so probably between $180 and $300. It's not AS complex a figure as Ford, but the swappable faces makes me suspect it will cost more than Stan.)

(The Kind Robot figure $500k stretch goal, with the swappable drivers of Soos and Kikimoura, is BREAKING NEWS as of like, a couple of hours ago; posted on the subreddit but not yet on the Indiegogo page? Who knows what it's going to cost.) That's everything I know for now! Consult the Indiegogo campaign page for more info, and further updates!

Again: BYEEE! Indiegogo Campaign Page

AAAHHH! Late breaking news from the GF subreddit: a $500K stretch goal that does not appear to be up on the Indiegogo page yet:

[shinesurge]

Webcomic rings run by people within the community are cool and you should support them

I've been loudly struggling a little bit with corporate webcomic Stuff lately so I want to mention something positive to balance it out: webrings run by small groups of creators earnestly trying to support each other are slowly making a comeback and I for one am delighted.

If you weren't around for them in the before times, webrings were just some folks who hang out a lot who feature each other on their websites. That's literally it lmao. There's generally no money involved and it only really functions the way it's supposed to if people have control over their own websites AND genuinely want to participate and get excited about other folks' work, which means the practice has pretty well fallen by the wayside over the years in webcomic culture given. Everything. In the rare event someone decides to do something like this it's usually in the form of a link list somewhere on their website; this doesn't usually indicate any sort of mutual support, it's just a list of what the creator is reading themselves.

A webring, though, is an official banner or hub that people gather under intentionally where each member is more or less on equal footing. It's essentially the concept of "a rising tide lifts all boats" put into practice, each creator brings their own audience to the table in a passive, opt-in sort of way that's different from working for a publisher since there isn't necessarily a Top Spot or a paycheck everyone's vying for, and individuals retain autonomy over both their own work and how (if) they promote each other. You're all at your own tables in an artist alley rather than fighting over the table in the front of the book store, essentially.

I have two rings and one collective for you today!

Webcomic Ring was brought to my attention AGES ago by Holly, one of the artists featured there, and I might have brought it up at some point but I'm doing it again lmao. This is exactly the kind of thing you ought to be looking for; a small group of enthusiastic folks having a good time making their weird little comics. You probably haven't heard of much in the catalog, that's PERFECT in the context of webcomics that's where the GOOD SHIT is. Finding something like this is A Gift go dig around in the longboxes for a while.

Then a few people have pointed me in the direction of the KNIFEBEETLE collective and that's neat too! Most of the comics there are already fairly well-known, but the vibes are excellent and I haven't seen a lot of talk about the collective /itself/ outside folks already in the know. I think it's important for this sort of thing to be more visible to folks who aren't terminally steeped in webcomic culture already so here I am telling you about it. You were probably reading several of these before I suggested it, but that's how a webring works! For it to do its job you should take those bigger creators' tacit recommendation of the less popular titles as a sign to go read something new and strange. Wild, I know these are practices held over from the old internet, but I think we should try and bring them back.

Lastly, I want to mention Spiderforest, which is a collective (slightly different from a webring) BUT still a very cool project readers starved for new stuff should pay attention to.

You've probably seen Spiderforest kicking around for a long time already; they're wonderful and have always been an overall positive force in the community in my experience. They really focus on building up a community, and especially welcoming newcomers and helping them get their feet under them. Full disclosure, I've been asked to apply by a few different folks over the years and the only reason I never did is I don't have the ability to participate in their forums and such as frequently as they want their creators to; it's a very good system (from my outside perspective) that might contribute to the community staying mostly healthy in ways that art communities usually don't and I appreciate it a lot!

ANYWAYS that's all I got for now, just trying to balance out some bad feelings I've been having by talking about some good stuff. Please go binge an archive this week.

[baronessvonglitter]

Cherry, Cherry 🍒 Chapter 18 🍒

"I Wanted It To Be You"

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: 7,467

Summary: Moving on from Joel, your life takes many unexpected courses: college, marriage.. yet you keep wondering What If..?

(Warnings contain spoilers, so please check beneath the cut if you're curious)

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, age gap (the difference is 17 years, and there are a few time skips throughout this chapter), starts in late 2003 and ends in 2023, Angst Angst Angst, brief mention of jailtime, breakup, parental issues, heavy on the mom guilt, underage drinking, dry humping, anonymous drunk sex (never ever do this, folks), vomit, reader going through a slutty era after getting her heart broken (just like Joel in Chapter 14), allusions to smut, time skips (labeled), panic attack, mention of drugs and alcohol, rough sex, creampie, surprise pregnancy, infidelity, lil bit of a makeout sesh with Tommy, semi-public sex, pussy pronouns, light degradation, Ellie is Joel's daughter, mention of cyberstalking (not as serious as it sounds), mention of reader having a therapist, Joel and Tess are married. If I left anything out, please LMK!

Author's Note: this took forever to write because the more I edited the more I wanted to add. And I know this chapter has quite a few time skips, I just wanted to highlight the important parts as much as I could. ALSO: I apologize for the unrealistically speedy law process at the beginning. I have no idea how that situation would pan out, but it would almost definitely drag out for months if not years.

So much angst here, but now the reader is all grown up! I wanted to add the convo with Sarah but this chapter was already getting so long, and I think it'll fit better in the next installment anyway.

Series Masterlist

"I would've said yes."

You've lost count of how many voicemails you leave Joel, who's been ignoring your calls, but this is the only time you say it, that you admit your love could have gone a different way if you'd just gotten back to that hotel room together.

You replay that night over and over in your head, but with different endings. In a perfect world, your father would never have even been there in the first place. In a separate, less perfect world, you would not have called out to him, just ignored him the way he ignored you. Then you'd have some peace of mind, and you'd belong with the man you love.

Each time you call Joel, you expect to hear his gruff voice on the other end of the line. And soon enough the ringing stops and goes straight to voicemail, where you leave him the words of your bleeding, broken heart:

"I would've said yes."

You haven't taken the ring out of its box, worried you'll jinx whatever luck you have left. Joel is supposed to kneel, take your hand in his, and place the ring on your finger. You've never envisioned what getting engaged would look like, but it definitely bears some semblance to tradition.

When Chris refused to press charges, the law stepped in and did it for him. Thirty days in the Bexar County Jail is what they sentenced Joel. That was why you couldn't reach him, why you felt like you were hitting a brick wall. It's a relief when you're finally able to speak to him.

"I'm so sorry," you cry to him over the phone, his voice like a warm and soothing balm. You imagine yourself curling into his embrace, allowing his arms to enfold you, make you small and safe, hidden from the dangers and ugliness of the world.

"You ain't got nothin' to be sorry for," he grunts.

"I love you." You sound pitiful over the phone but you don't care. "Joel, let me come see you and we can work it out. Please."

He sighs. "I got somethin' I need to tell you. Might change your mind how ya feel about me."

"What?" you ask quickly, your young mind scrambling to imagine what he could say, as if to fortify your already shattered heart. Your stomach sinks, nausea threatening to make the bile rise in your throat. "Joel, what is it?"

He's quiet for awhile and when he speaks it's monotone. "I've been seein' someone else."

It sounds like he's speaking a foreign language. You shake your head, looking at your wall calendar. It's only December. You last saw him in late September. The biblical manger scene on the church calendar your mom put on the fridge is an evil harbinger of time now lost.

"Who?" you ask, dreading the answer.

"Doesn't matter," he says gruffly, sounding uncomfortable.

"Tell me who," you insist.

With a deep sigh he relents. "Hailey."

Again, it's like hearing a foreign language. "Hailey? The girl I worked with? The one who went to Sarah's party? That Hailey?"

"Yeah."

"How.. how did this happen?"

"Ran into her at a bar my first night out of jail. I was lonely and she was.. she was there for me."

"What do you mean? Did you-" you take a moment to breathe, try not to let your emotions take over.

"I slept with her. That's all it is between us, just fuckin'."

It's like a punch in the gut. No, worse. It's a blade plunging into your heart over and over.

In a blur of upset and disappointment, you utter the words of anyone who's ever had a broken heart: "How could you do this to me?"

There's no answer for it from his side. His refusal to go into detail feels like he's hiding his fling with Hailey on purpose, withholding part of his new life to you, but you never stop to think he might be saving you from the pain he knows is due.

You cry after hanging up on him. You cry more than you did when he left you in San Antonio. You cry until you can no longer see because your eyes are puffy, nearly tiny slits that still somehow shed tears when you think of Joel with your ex-friend.

Once the sadness has been cried out, there remains only rage, simmering and profound. With small, practiced movements, you take the engagement ring in its box and mail it to Joel's address. No note, and no explanation needed.

"You're not yourself," your mom mentions one night when you push your plate away, your dinner barely touched.

"Not hungry," you mumble.

She sighs in exasperation. "I don't know what to do with you. You won't talk to me." She pushes her own plate away and downs the rest of her cheap wine. "You come home from God-knows-where, with a damn bruise on your face."

You touch your cheek where your father had accidentally knocked you backwards, wishing it was the only physical pain you endured from that night.

"..you don't bother with the chores anymore, you lock yourself away in your room, probably not even studying. Do you even attend classes anymore? Do you even care about your future?" she continues.

"No," you say quite simply.

"No??"

You shake your head and shrug, as if answering something as easy as 'do you want to watch a movie later?'

"I don't. Give. A shit."

Anita scoffs, refilling her glass. "Great. That's just great. Maybe I'll drink this entire bottle and give myself alcohol poisoning. Then I wouldn't have to deal with your shitty attitude anymore."

The scrape of your chair as you push away from the table is as loud as nails on a chalkboard. "You want me to talk? I'll talk." You lean forward, relishing this moment where your mom looks scared as shit.

"I said I was in College Station, but I lied. I was fucking Joel every weekend I was away. We met up in hotel rooms and fucked each other's brains out. And the best part of it all was that he loved me," your voice breaks but you're wickedly delighted by the look of shock and disgust on your mother's face.

You're on a tirade now that can't be stopped. "Two months ago I found Dad in San Antonio. I did," you nod, a psychotic kind of laughter breaking from you when she gawks. "And do you know what? He's forgotten all about us. He has a new family, new kids, new young wife. And he doesn't give a shit about you or me. He never really has, has he?" You realize you're standing, towering over her as you spit out all the venom she's ever poured into you right back at her.

"Now.. how does it feel to have the truth shoved in your face? To be deprived of the fantasy world you wanted so badly to live in, cushioned by your idiotic pretenses? Because I'll bet you could've gone your whole life not knowing, staying innocent. Well, Mother Dearest, fuck you."

Without a word you pack your things, your body moving way ahead of your brain, stuffing every necessary item into a couple of bags before you leave her house, with the intention to never return again.

Summer 2004 Louisiana

Staying with friends in a shitty apartment, you finish the rest of the semester before transferring to another school. Three schools in one year probably isn't a very good look on your transcript, but it's the first choice you make that is truly your own. Working two jobs over the summer you finally have the money you need to survive as you begin a new chapter in Louisiana.

You do everything in your power to get over Joel. The first step was deleting his number from your phone, even though you've already memorized it by heart. To be safe, you also delete Tommy's number, and Sarah's. It feels final, and a small part of you wishes they could get a notification informing them you no longer consider them important enough to keep, even as data.

It still stings when you think of Joel with Hailey. She's older, more experienced, and can probably do whatever he wants without being asked. After you've deleted the Millers from your contact list, you hover over Hailey's name, pressing it and, in a moment of antagonism, send her a text. I thought you were my friend, Turns out you're just a fucking slut Then you delete and block her number.

Dating other guys doesn't come very easy. It's as if they can smell the heartbreak on you, sense your loneliness and unease, the untempered anger simmering below the surface of your smile. You're a walking red flag and you know it, but that doesn't stop you.

You grind on a guy at a club after he buys you a few appletinis. Never mind that he's twenty five and trying to get you drunk so you'll fuck him. With your twenty-dollar Charlotte Russe dress hiked up as you drag your sopping panties over his clothed hardness, he sucks the apple flavor off your tongue, one hand gripping your hips while the other slips inside your underwear to rub your clit and you come for the first time in months. So loud, in fact, that you're caught and promptly kicked out of the club. When your partner (you never remember his name) asks to continue at his place, you decline, already walking to the next bar.

Once the high wears off, you are consumed with guilt as you think of Joel. What would he say if he found out? Would he even care? Maybe he's fucking Hailey right now.

And it hits you that it's already been a year since you first slept with him.

You pause in the middle of the street, coming back to earth when a car honks at you, cursing at you to hurry up and fucking move dumb bitch!

Walking on, you can't get the memory of the feel of Joel out of your head: the way his tongue licked into your mouth, fingers traveling down to play between your folds, telling you he needed you nice and wet before he fucked you, those thick fingers slipping in and playing you like a well tuned instrument, his lips gliding over your throat, resting just above your pulse point, then finding their way down the slope of your breasts, taking each nipple between his lips, his beard rasping against your skin.

You try to force the thought away, but it returns manifold. His mouth, the stiffened warmth of his tongue lapping at your cunt, drinking up every fucking drop and telling you you taste so sweet. He doesn't stop until you come more than once, finally fitting himself inside you, teasing you with the first few inches. Sure you can handle the rest, babygirl? before sliding in in one smooth thrust, joining you body and soul, moving against you just how you need.

You cover your face with your hands and wander into an alley, overcome with despair at the loss of your love, the loss of what innocence you thought you had. Both of those things given to someone who only saw fit to fuck you as he wished and discard when he couldn't handle the reality of your personal life.

"Are you okay?" a voice asks, approaching softly from behind. You turn and see a man, another college student like yourself, dressed in jeans and a striped button down. His features blur together until all you hear is his soft Southern accent and all you smell is his Curve cologne. The next thing you know you're kissing him, begging him to touch you, fuck you, and then he's spinning you to face the wall, dress hiked up, panties pulled down. Your arms support you against the wall as he pushes into you from behind and all you think about is him fucking the pain away, pumping into you hard and fast. He's nowhere near as big as Joel, but you've been so touch starved that the sounds coming out of your mouth are shameless.

Without warning you vomit, splashing your shoes and the wall in front of you with appletini puke, and the guy pulls out immediately, getting away from you as fast as he can, tucking himself back into his jeans.

You rest your forehead against the cool brick wall, spitting out the sour taste in your mouth as tears weep freely from your eyes.

September 2004

At the start of sophomore year you're the only one who doesn't have family come down to help move in, to visit with and take silly, memorable photos with. Nobody comes to your dorm and helps you decorate and put your belongings away. By the time your assigned roommate comes with her parents and little brother you're already set up, fresh sheets on your twin bed, your side already claimed.

You're reading when she comes in, a young girl, freshman, with hope in her eyes, excited to meet you, looking forward to her new life away from Montana or Missouri or wherever she says she's from. You're barely listening.

Who you do notice is her dad: mid-forties, slight beer belly, wearing a polo shirt and cargo pants with brand new New Balance shoes. You make eye contact immediately before he shifts his gaze away. His daughter, your new roommate Jessica, starts to unpack, asking you questions about the classes, what student groups to join. You offer what advice you can, stretching out on your bed in your tank top and running shorts. Her dad's eyes roam over your curves when his wife and kids aren't looking, and you unabashedly flirt back, making sure your shorts ride up, pulling down your tank just a little to expose more cleavage.

Once they leave for a quick tour around the campus you're back to your reading.

Jessica's dad comes back. Alone.

"I think I forgot my wallet in here," he says, giving a forced look of timidity as he checks his pockets.

"You didn't," you smirk, putting your book down and sitting up. "But you can stay if you want.."

He doesn't make an excuse about his family and you wouldn't care if they walked in anyway. Once the door is locked his hands are on your body, grabbing your ass while your hand goes down his pants. You tell him exactly what will make you come, and he does it so willingly it almost touches your heart.

Later as he's leaving and you're trying to get his cum off your bedsheets, he's asking you not to say anything to his daughter, as if you'd proudly exclaim that you fucked him, having barely remembered his name.

You're learning that a lot of men are the same at their very core.

You're a fantasy for the older ones, a college coed with daddy issues and an IUD. Having already been with an older man, you know just what they like, and when you give it you live for the way their eyes light up, and a little of their youth comes back to them for a moment.

It's almost pitiful how easy you figure out the opposite sex. Once you know what they want it's easy to become that, to dress how they want, to feign interest in the things they like, even to keep your thoughts to yourself. You learn to live inside your head, which until now has been the hardest thing to do.

But it's necessary when you're holding onto the headboard of some frat guy's bed while fake moaning as he's holding your hips, going as fast as he can because that's what they do in porn. Each and every guy has a Scarface poster above the bed, or Playboy centerfolds taped to the walls, neon lava lamps on the nightstand along with CDs by Kanye West, Franz Ferdinand, or Velvet Revolver. Your thoughts are elsewhere as you give halfhearted head.

You learn to feel nothing, not even pleasure, because they certainly can't tell that you fake every sigh and gasp.

But the older men, the professors, TA's, even men you meet off campus at the bars in town.. they are what interest you. It's not common for you to find yourself bent over a desk during your professor's office hours, or with your panties around your ankles when a one-on-one study session turns to something else.

You fuck men who remind you of Joel because you can't fuck Joel. It's his hands on you instead of theirs, his breath hot on your ear.. but no one else can fill the part of you that Joel hollowed out for himself when he made you his on a hot Texas summer night.

Though you think about him every day, soon enough, you start to wonder whether he was ever even real, or just someone you made up.

March 2006

Spring Break finds you at a beach house on the coast. The friends you came with are nowhere to be found, and you're pretty sure your drink is laced with something. The music is so loud that you hurry out into the night, seeking solace before the roaring waters of the gulf, black water topped with silver waves. Their rushing sound is soothing, yet you sink to your knees because your world is too heavy.

"I'm dying," you whisper to yourself, crying. Your chest feels tight. It's so hard to breathe, and it feels like your heart will explode.

Only one person on the entire planet comes to mind, and after all this time you still remember his number. You dial it, fingers savoring the press of each button on your phone. How many times have you called Joel and hung up before he could answer? There have been a couple of times when you dialed him while having sex, not sure if he ever picked up, hoping that he heard you moving on and moving away from him. That'll show him.

But you can't even breathe to talk to him. And what if he doesn't answer? What if he's changed his number?

You leave all his numbers entered on the screen but you don't hit the call button. Not yet. You have to think of something to say. Tell him you love him before your body rejects the air it's trying so desperately to claim into your lungs.

"Hey, are you all right?" a gentle voice asks behind you, and a hand is on your shoulder.

You flashback to that night in the alley, the guy who took advantage of you, but this time it doesn't go that way.

A man with soulful eyes and a kind smile kneels next to you, his hand remaining on your shoulder. "I think you're having a panic attack. Can I help you with that?" His voice is as kind and gentle as he looks, and you nod.

"Can you breathe for me? Like this." He inhales deeply and slowly, and when you try it it feels so foreign but you manage it.

"There you go," he says quietly. "Now breathe out.."

Soon he has your breathing back to normal, and you don't have to force your body to do what it naturally does.

"Tell me five things you can see," he continues.

A shaky breath in. Hey, at least it's a breath. "Um.. the water.. the sand.. the moon.. you.."

That's when you get your first good look at him, beyond the smile that works its warmth into your heart, and the eyes that search yours, exuding humanity that you haven't experienced in a long time. He's really cute. You can't deny that your heart skips a couple of beats.

"One more thing?" he says, his voice soft.

You snap back to reality. "Uh.. a ship.. out there in the distance?"

He glances behind him at the water, seeing the great big liner, possibly a cruise ship, on the inky horizon, and takes a seat next to you. "How are you feeling now?" he asks.

"Good.. I think. Better." You nod. "Thank you."

"May I?" he lifts your hand from your lap and turns the palm up, his fingers poised above your pulse point. You nod again.

He presses his touch to your wrist, and you watch his eyes calculating, his lips silently moving while counting. Despite everything you've been through the past two years, this is the most intimate thing you've felt.

"Your pulse is normal." He gently places your hand back on your lap. "Do you want to go back to the party or do you want to stay out here a little longer? If you want to go back," he adds, "I'll be with you, make sure you're okay."

You opt to stay on the beach, embracing the quiet for a little longer. This is the first time a man has had you alone and hasn't tried to fuck you. It's nice, for once.

Towards the end of the night he leads you back to the party house, guiding you through the throng of people there, the air rife with alcohol and the pungent aroma of weed. You're holding his hand, you realize as you walk together. He's your lifeline in this very moment. You grab your jacket and purse from one of the bedrooms, passing by couples making out, some slipping into rooms to do much more than kissing. To think you could have easily ended up there with a random guy makes your skin crawl.

"What was your name again?" you shout to him over the music.

"Justin!"

"Dustin?"

"Justin!"

You both laugh. You tell him your name and of course he mishears you.

He drives you to the small motel room you're sharing with your friends who are inevitably crashing at the beach house, too drugged or drunk or fucked to return for the night.

Justin smiles at you as the engine idles. "Is it okay if I ask you out?"

You exchange numbers, your heart thrumming with a pleasant nervousness. You haven't had a boyfriend since..

..not since Joel.

Don't think about him.

"You can reach out to me if you ever just feel like talking," he says. "I'm here."

So you do, and after a week of texting and a couple of late night calls and getting to know each other, you go for a date for the first time in three years.

Justin picks you up in a Honda Civic, and as you get comfy in the passenger seat you breathe in the scent of the black ice air freshener and his spearmint gum. The radio blasts Smashing Pumpkins at a level you know is too much but it only adds to the excitement of the evening.

He's a year older than you, native to Louisiana, and on leave from the Army.

Living just a half hour from your campus, you start to spend much of your time together. Movie dates, dinner dates, and dates where you just drive around, talking about nothing and everything.

You only sleep with him three months into your relationship, desiring to take things slow for once, to know him better than you have ever known anyone.

It's nice. It's like what you see in the movies, two people wrapped up in each other, soft, no words needed. For once your head isn't forced down into the pillow, or your pussy spit on. For once it's just normal, and normal feels so good.

June 2008 New Orleans, LA

Bourbon Street is alive, electric, no matter that it's a Sunday night. People will drift into work tomorrow still drunk on Zombies and Hurricanes. The entire street reeks of piss, but people either don't care or have been here long enough that it no longer harasses their senses. But more often than not, people are having too much of a good time to care.

You're behind the bar at little hole-in-the-wall place, slinging daiquiris and kamikaze shots when you hear a familiar voice and a tap on your shoulder. "Hey there, Cherry."

You turn and your eyes go wide. "Tommy!" You reach over the bar to hug him, nearly spilling a beer on him in the process. "It's been ages! How are you?

He looks older, more mature, even though it's only been five years since you last saw him: he's letting his facial hair grow, but his eyes still sparkle with mirth and kindness. "It's good to see you, girl." He's no longer with Sofia, their romance having ended a few years before, on friendly terms or so your cousin claimed. You always blamed yourself for the demise of their relationship, believing that your breakup with Joel cast a shadow over her own connection with Tommy.

"What are you doing here?" you ask.

"We're good, just here in town, expanding the business."

"We?" Your hands start to shake, and you put away the bottle of gin you have your grasp on. Your heart starts to pound before the next words even leave his mouth.

"Yeah, me and Joel are lettin' off a little steam, wanted to toss back a few before we go back to the hotel."

You feel his eyes on you before you're even aware that he's here. Looking up, at a small table near the entrance, is Joel Miller. Your heart stops, and you don't know how it is you're still alive. He looks you up and down, appraising every feature and detail about you, and you wonder if you've changed in five years or not. You wonder if he still loves or hates you.

"...and we thought this was that bar where girls dance and pour tequila down guys' throats, but this is just as good 'cause you're here."

Tommy manages to snap you out of your trance. "Oh.. you mean Coyote Ugly.."

"Yeah, they opened one in Austin a couple years back but this one ain't never wanna go nowhere," he motions back with his head to Joel.

You return your gaze to the older brother but he's no longer looking at you, his glance dotting along the crowd, following a younger woman as she saunters up to him, smiling, flirting. Your stomach turns and you force a smile at Tommy.

"Whatever you want is on me."

Tommy's smile and laughter is infectious. "You sure about that, Cherry?"

"I'm sure," you say, pouring out a shot for yourself. "You know, nobody's called me that in a long time."

"What's that?" he catches a bright sparkle on your left hand, and quickly takes it within his own. "Cherry, you didn't tell me you were engaged!"

Joel must have one ear straining to listen because Tommy's outburst got his attention right away and he swivels his head to look at you.

"Yeah.. he's a nice guy." That's how you describe Justin to everyone: he's a nice guy. He'd proposed last year after your one year dating anniversary. "He's in the Army, they're shipping him out a week after our wedding. And I'm going with him."

"He's a good guy if he's an Army man," Tommy approves, just as Joel approaches, the woman he was talking to now gone. "So? Are we invited to the weddin'?"

You can't tell if he's teasing or not, and Joel's poker face gives zero indication as well. "I already sent out save-the-dates, but if you'd like to come I won't object. The more the merrier." For the first time you see Joel up close and your heart stutters, an irregular beat that you'd gotten used to in the aftermath of your disastrous breakup.

He's still so fucking handsome: the dark brown of his hair fading to what you can already see as gray, with gray patches in his beard. There are more lines around his eyes. There's still that jolt of electricity when your gazes meet.

"You happy?" he asks, his countenance giving nothing away of his true feelings, so it's difficult to gage whether he's legitimately asking, or simply being nice.

"I'm happy." But it sounds forced, like taking the pliers to your own mouth to fix your own abscess.

Joel only nods as you pour a couple whiskeys for them. "To Cherry getting married!" Tommy beams his salute and the three of you down the shots quickly.

It's sometime after your shift, and you're in the parking lot with Tommy, his arms around you as he presses you to the side of his truck. Or maybe it's Joel's truck. You don't know and you don't care, all you want is to feel something again. The nearness of Joel all night has rewired your brain, and as Tommy deepens the kiss, you're disappointed that it's not Joel's taste, not Joel's scent that surrounds you. Luckily he's not a bad kisser, and his hands roam everywhere you want them to be.

Better the wrong Miller than no Miller at all, your whiskey-soaked brain tells you.

"Always thought you were pretty," he whispers, hands palming your breasts over your shirt. "But you were Joel's from the moment he set eyes on ya, told me so himself. Leave that one alone, she ain't for you.'"

"He didn't want me enough.." your voice cracks as tears spill effortlessly down your cheeks.

"Don't cry," he says gently. "I don't got any tissues with me." He uses his thumb to wipe away your tears. "Still want me to give you a ride home?"

You nod, telling him you need to make a quick trip to the ladies' room to fix your makeup, and in the narrow hallway where the restrooms are hidden from the rest of the bar, you run into Joel.

"Sorry," you mumble, trying to get around him, but he puts his large hand on your shoulder to stop you.

"You gonna take my brother home and fuck him? Then marry some Army jackass?" he says as in disbelief.

You put your guard up, tougher now than you were five years ago. "What I do is my business. By the way, how's Hailey?"

"Who?"

"Don't play dumb." You push past him and start for the women's room to fix your makeup when Joel stops you again.

"You ain't gonna fuck my brother tonight, or any other night, babygirl," he utters.

There's a fire lit under you now. "Oh? What are you, the Morality Police? Fuck off."

"Fuck me," he says. "You know you want to. You're probably wet from Tommy, and I appreciate his gettin' ya ready for me, but I notice the subtler signs: your eyes are glistenin', you've been lickin' your lips every time you look at me, and you probably haven't noticed, but your nipples are pokin' right through your shirt. I bet they're just beggin' for attention, huh?"

He says all this while just standing in front of you, not crowding you like any other guy would. And you realize he's not even trying to rile you up. He's giving you a choice.

"What makes you think I want you? I have a good man who loves me. He's all I need."

"Needs and wants are different, babygirl. Once you're married you're stuck with him til' death. Hope you realize that."

"I'm aware." But it's already hit you: you'll be with Nice Justin for the rest of your life. You'll be a Nice Wife and maintain a Nice Home for the inevitable Nice Kids you'll have. You hate Joel for putting this thought in your head.

"He fuck you like I did?" he asks in an intimate tone.

You shake your head, already pulling him into the restroom with you. "Joel, no one's ever fucked me like you did."

Your body delights in the quick, sweet reunion with him. It's as if time has never separated you, as if both your hearts are whole again. His mouth greedily devours your kisses. He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes, the latter a bad habit. You're shoved into one of the stalls, fumbling with the lock while Joel's hands find their way across your body, one under your shirt, palming your breast, the other going into your jeans, expertly finding your soaked panties, crooking his fingers into your cunt.

Your back is pressed against his broad chest, his cock already hard inside his jeans, rubbing furiously against your lower back until he bends you forward to press against your ass, finally pulling your jeans and panties down in one go.

Too much time has passed for you to be gentle or even careful. He presses you to the stall door, nothing but heat and raw need between you. Words not needed, your only communication grunts and whispered curses that echo against the tiles of the cramped space.

"You ain't takin' no slow and gentle with me, sugar. i ain't got the patience for that right now." He nudges against you and it's a wonder you don't burn up with all the fire that inflames you. After so long it's a labor of love to fit him again, but as his fingers add pressure to your clit you get wetter, opening for him as easily as you did years ago.

"There she is," he says. "Been waitin' for me, been needin' a real man to fill ya up, ain't ya, babygirl?" he huffs in your ear, breath warm against your skin. "Answer me, baby."

"Yes.." your voice comes out in a hiss, your brain only thinking about his cock, the way it stuffs you, the only thing that completes you.

"That's what I thought. These lil' college boys don't know what to do with such a tight, pretty pussy. And neither does your fiance." He hikes one of your legs up, tucking your knee under his arm, keeping you nice and open, watching himself slide in and out of your weeping slit, slamming himself against you as he sinks his thumb into your puckered asshole, eliciting an all-but muffled gasp from you. "I know you called me just so I could listen to them fuckin' ya.. I know you never came with them, not once. This pussy is mine, has been from the very start."

You're no longer a virginal high school grad, and he takes what he wants from you, giving you what he knows you need.

The door opens but he doesn't stop, just quiets his own noises and clamps his hand over your mouth to squelch your sounds. The stall door jiggles and you put your hand over it until the person grumbles and walks away, muttering about having to piss. When they're gone Joel pumps into you relentlessly, chasing his pleasure and yours. He knows by now what will make you come, which combination of touches and kisses make your knees weak and your clit stand at attention.

"Fucking come for me, you little slut," he whispers, his tone almost loving if you didn't know better, and when you let go the pleasure is almost painful. Years of need and pent-up longing are released as your cunt squeezes around his rigid cock, milking him, smiling when you feel the warm spurt of his come as he presses deep at your cervix.

"That's my girl," he says proudly, your come spilling out already, lining his dick with a mix of both of you. "She's wrecked, split wide open like she's meant to be.. gonna send you back to your man drippin' with my come, used up like a good lil' whore."

His words add a sweet sting to the pleasure that has yet to ebb, resounding through your veins like thunder that takes its time in rolling away from the storm. Whore.. well, he's not wrong.

When your heavy breathing has subsided, you feel him start to slip out of you and you put your hand back on his thigh, a silent gesture to hold off.

"Missed you.. needed you," you mutter, tears of joy and relief and heartache brim in your eyes, until you allow the pleasure of the moment to take over without thought or feeling.

"I know.." he says softly, slipping out of you, careful as you're still sensitive.

That could have been the end. You could have gone your separate ways, but you're drawn to each other, and that doesn't go away easily. When you emerge from the rear entrance of the bar, Tommy looks up, and you can tell he expected that you'd end up with Joel instead. He simply nods as you pass him, walking with Joel to the tiny apartment you share with Justin, who's out of town visiting family. And as you and Joel spend the rest of the night locked in each other's embrace, you realize you don't care if he walks in on you, kicks you out, breaks off the engagement. You're with Joel and nothing else matters.

By dawn you wake up to find that he's gone, leaving only the scent of him on the pillow next to you. No note, no explanation, no goodbye. And once again you're sure you only dreamed up Joel Miller, used him as a mental escape for the life you were tying yourself down to.

It's very atypical for you to forgo a period, even at your most stressed, you can count on seeing that bright red stain on the toilet paper around the middle of every month. And when, by mid-July, you haven't even spotted, the first thing you do is take a pregnancy test.

All the men before have been careful, or you've been fortunate enough not to have a scare. But when you finally force yourself to look at the the little blue plus sign developing on the test strip, you realize this is no scare.

You're pregnant with Joel's baby.

The wedding takes place as expected, and your heart sinks when you walk down the aisle, seeing the joy on Justin's face. You've told him the baby is his, and he doesn't doubt it for a moment, that's how much he loves you. But for a fleeting moment you want so bad for it to be Joel at the altar instead.

The ceremony goes by in a blur, as everyone warned you it would. Group pictures are taken, the videographer is capturing the moments that photos alone can't encapsulate.

"Over here, honey!" photographer gets your attention. You barely hear him as you watch a figure walking out, one of the last guests to leave the church. From behind he looks like Joel, but you can't quite tell, and when your eyes fully focus, he's gone, and your own vision can't be trusted.

Tommy gave his regrets that he couldn't attend, and Joel simply never RSVP'd. But in your heart you know it was him, you know he had to come and see for himself that you're moving on, growing up and growing away from him. The only tether you have to him is the baby growing in your belly.

"Front and center, Mrs. Williams," Justin smirks, giving your cheek a soft kiss. "One more picture then we're onto the reception."

March 2009

Your daughter is born in the springtime, a loud and howling child from the moment she leaves you. The only time she's quiet is when she's in your arms.

"We need to decide on a name," Justin says, a little miffed that his daughter cries when he holds her despite his best efforts to soothe her.

"I told you, I like Ophelia," you say, gathering her into your arms to feed her.

"It's such a prissy name. And I can already tell she's not gonna be prissy."

"Then what do you suggest?" you ask tiredly. He doesn't seem to understand you've gone through labor for twenty four hours, only thinking of himself.

"Eleanor, after my mother."

You groan. "I always hated that name."

"Please, babe. It'll make her so happy to have her granddaughter as her namesake."

"Fine. Fine. But her middle name is Ophelia."

"Deal." Justin smiles as he fills out the paperwork.

"Eleanor.." you tell your baby. "But I'm going to call you Ellie."

Your mother once told you that when you become a parent, your life is not your own anymore. She said it as a kind of warning, a prophecy yet to be fulfilled when you were just a pre-teen, rolling your eyes at her warning you away from all kinds of danger.

You never expected she'd be right. Every waking moment holds more weight than ever before. Ellie is completely dependent on you, even as she grows and becomes more independent. It's you she looks to for validation when she does something right, and you she looks to when she knows she's in trouble.

She's smart as a whip, quick with a comeback and well versed in anything she can get her hands on. She excels in sports too-- individually, at first. As she gets older you notice a little bit of a mean streak in her. While she craves friends and wants to be part of a team, she has trouble making connections sometimes.

You have to wonder if part of that comes from Joel, his stubbornness and his lone wolf tendencies. Has he unknowingly passed down the most insecure parts of himself to his daughter? Sorry, his secondborn daughter?

Now there's literal proof of Joel Miller as a person, in human form, and she's trudging upstairs with her field hockey equipment and slamming her bedroom door.

Between the years of 2004 and 2008 you could almost convince yourself that he didn't exist, that he was a figment of your runaway imagination, born of a father complex and attachment issues. You work on yourself in therapy, feeling small as you divulge the innermost secrets of your heart and the intrusive thoughts, even going so far as to reveal that you've looked for Joel on social media, now that everyone has a profile.

Born of an intrusive thought, you type his name into the search bar on Facebook. Getting quite a few findings of those with the same name, you narrow the search. Joel Miller, Austin Texas His company logo comes up as its own page, and you notice it's changed, probably Tommy's idea as Joel never liked change.

Searching further you find his picture. There it is: Joel Miller, Boston Massachusetts

Huh?

You click on his profile while your heart thumps strongly within your ribcage. You wish you could let it out, set it free.

There he is, looking older than the last time you saw him, the grey more prominent in his hair, looking serious in his selfie. Even though it's just a selfie, a random moment in time, you can't help blushing, as if he's looking at you through the screen, appraising your own measure of aging. You wonder what you were doing that exact moment he took the picture.

But your hunger for knowledge needs to be fed, and scrolling down you swear you misread it at first.

Relationship status: Married

There's a roaring in your ears as your mouse hovers over the name next to those words: Tess Servopoulos

From there you check out her profile, see that she's from Detroit, five years younger than Joel. While his profile pic is only of himself, hers shows them together, on a hiking trail somewhere, Joel's arms around her from behind.

You slam the laptop shut, your blood buzzing in your veins. You feel distractingly alive, the heartache spreading through every muscle and nerve ending. Your past is brought to full fucking focus.

Against your better judgment you open the screen again and search through Tess's photos, specifically the ones of Joel. Most of the comments are from a couple of guys named Bill and Frank, who after some digging you come to find are married, and friends with Joel and Tess. You hit the jackpot when you find a video she uploaded, a fifteen-second clip of Joel holding a baby. Your heart stops when you realize the baby isn't his but Sarah's, and he's now a grandfather.

It feels like you're spying on them. You know so much about them by now, and the one glaring omission is children. They don't seem to have any.

Going back to Joel's profile, you hover the mouse dangerously over the Add Friend button. When you click it, it's the strongest rush you've felt in ages.

Weeks later, he hasn't accepted it. The sparkle of your anticipation is dulled, and with a heavy heart you click to cancel the request.

A couple years down the road you get a notification from Facebook Messenger while you're watching Narcos.

Message Request. Sarah Miller Hey! It's been forever! How are you?

dividers by @saradika-graphics 👑

<- prev chapter

next chapter ->

[icepoptroll]

So I'm seeing some folks are interested in my nurse Karnak AU! I've been filling in on a lot of day shifts lately so I haven't had as much time to sit down and draw but here are some ideas I've had because yes I do intend to write this, I feel it would be too fun to pass up:

Penny is in really bad shape. Ricky, now very much attached to her, wants to see her but knows he's likely to get shooed away if seen entering her room. Mischa causes a big scene to create a distraction so Ricky can visit with Penny because Mischa is a total bro (Ricky resolves he'll just be super super careful)

I've been asked what the deal with Virgil is and quite honestly I'm not sure I'm imaginative enough to think of some role for him here that isn't pure unadulterated nonsense. However my experience as a nurse is that many of us can't stand our companies' charting software so like what if "Virgil" is the name of the hospital's documentation system. Noel hears Karnak mutter "you're killing me, Virgil" under his breath when his computer crashes yet again, goes completely apeshit and tells all the others. This incident is then recorded in the "this nurse is the robot genie looking guy from purgatory" evidence files

Karnak is giving me seasoned RN vibes like he freaking runs this place

Gotta research roller coaster injuries for this, unsure what exactly would have happened to everyone

Here's some fast and messy doodles to show I really am working on it lol (ACTUALLY quite proud of the Dinamap lol)

[sheydgarden]

a reminder

i haven't been posting much here in a few months. part of that has been work-related - putting a lot of my time into illustration projects that i can't share, & also doing a lot of prep for a local Hanukkah market i both co-organize & vend at (which happened this past weekend). i tend to use this space as a sort of less-formal gallery, only posting work i consider "finished" or reblogging things related to projects i'm involved in. in the past i've been more talkative & more apt to share WIPs & personal things on my other social media (Twitter, Instagram, Bluesky), which is still true even though i've had to take several steps back from some of those platforms lately for my mental health.

all this is to say that if you only follow me here, you haven't seen me make any kind of statement about the crisis in Israel/Palestine, because that isn't how i've been using this particular site. i do not think of my art as apolitical & i am not secretive about my politics, but over & over again, i find myself followed by people who appear to be shocked to learn that i am proudly & actively anti-Zionist. i have been for my entire adult life. as a Jewish artist making visibly Jewish work, this puts a target on me, not only from garden-variety antisemites but also from fellow Jews who feel "betrayed" by my solidarity with Palestine & threatened by my vocal opposition to colonialism, apartheid & genocidal violence (as well as the very idea of ethnostates). in fact, the harassment & abuse i receive online is primarily from Zionists, which is not something i would have ever expected with so many white supremacists & neo-Nazis crawling all over the current internet!

so, this is just me cleaning house now & again. i don't feel the need to post signs shooing away folks who should be getting that message very easily from my work (if you hate queer, trans, fat, disabled & Jewish people i truly don't know why you'd follow me), but it's very easy for Zionists to see much of my Jewish-focused work & decide they like it, only to turn verbally abusive when they realize i don't share their views. here's your sign! if you want to bail, do so quietly & civilly like an adult please. thank you.

[bryce-bucher]

500 CALIBER CONTRACTZ Post #12

Dialogue!!!11:

The main thing I did over the past week or so was put together this dialogue system. The system itself was fairly easily to implement, and I think the only interesting part of the process to share is how I went about making the UI. As per usual, I wanted to have a cool mechanical feeling ui, but at the same time a friend of mine suggested an AOL instant messenger inspired chat window. I loved both of these ideas so I decided to combine them into a screen that pops up and contains the aim-like window. The modeling process for the screen was similar to how I went about making the other two bits of ui that are on screen in the above photos, but I decided to include a VGA port.

VGA PORT:

I didn't originally plan to include a VGA port, but I was in the middle of researching monitors and accidentally left a window open on my computer that just had a big photo of one and I went "wait a minute.". With my final two braincells I suddenly decided to slap together a model for the port which I ended up being proud enough of to, for some reason, make an entire section for it.

Sorry if any of the above sentences read horribly. I am going to need a third braincell if you want this stuff to be coherent. Anyway, Blender is so cool. Using the array modifier to make all these lil squares for the holes in the port is just such a satisfying process. I've come to really like makin pre-rendered assets like this.

New Movez:

This is actually a pretty big inclusion, and I probably should've ranked it in my mind above the VGA port. I added some new movement options to the game!

Firstly, I added this melee move where you swing the back of the sniper forwards to propel yourself a bit. It is mainly useful as a bunnyhop that allows you to conserve momentum.

Next up I added this kick that happens if you melee while in the air. It's basically just the one from mario64. It lets you gain a little bit more height and distance. It also becomes way more effective if you have a lot of momentum. A good tool for correcting jumps and reaching new heights.

Finally, we have the big schmovement slide. This slide gives you a huge burst of speed that you can jump out of in order to send your self flyin. Surprisingly, it didn't really break any of the level design and ended up being a really fun addition imo. In order to perform it, you have to do a ground pound and then melee as you hit the ground. Also, I feel like I basically stole this from pseudoregalia. Played through that recently and it has been a good source of inspiration.

Nova!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!:

This is a cameo skin I've been really excited to finally make myself put in the game. Anodyne 2 is a really important game to me, and I love it much. I'm really happy tha folks at analgesic let me put her in here, and I'm p happy with how her model came together. If you haven't peeped the Anodyne games I highly recommend them. The first one was a major inspiration for parts of Fatum Betula.

Conclusion:

Lately I've been playing this game way too much. It has made it impossible for me to tell if it is fun or well designed. Some problems cropped up during playtesting that ima need to address, and I hope that it all comes together into something that one could say is "fun and cool". I think takin this weekend off is gonna do my brain good. Oh yeah also I feel like I should advertise that I'm still doing commissions if anyone is interested. Anyway, have a good 1 and enjoy urself.

[dickgraysonisnothereforthis]

Message Received

jason todd x reader, sequel to Outgoing Call

Big warnings for this one folks. Reader is an addict who relapses, there is a long stretch of fierce self-loathing. Please know yourself and what you can handle. Also, reader's father has died. Again, know yourself and what you can handle.

Also, vomit and swearing.

I don't know how long this is

——————

The night wind whips by as Jason races to Jess’ apartment, ripping through Gotham on his motorcycle. He hopes to god you're still there. He's got one eye on the road, the other on the speedometer. Squeezing the accelerator, he lets the dial tick up five, ten, fifteen miles per hour. He tears past cars and trucks, squeezes into tight spaces, takes turns dangerously fast. It's some of the most reckless biking he's ever done, but he doesn't care. The stakes are high, high in a way they haven't been before. High because this is his fault. Jason has to get to you before you relapse, before you hurt yourself too badly.

Most of his focus goes toward controlling the bike, but he reserves some for trying to figure out how to explain showing up unannounced at your friend's apartment 24 hours after he broke up with you. Over text.

And he only has to come get you because he knows from a bug Bruce placed in Jess' apartment that his text made you fall back into an alcohol habit he didn't know you had.

Jesus. He really fucked this one up.

Jason shakes his head. The excuse is a problem for later. He’ll think one up. Or he won't. It doesn't matter.

The road melts away under his tires, and soon he’s barreling up Jess’ street. He cuts the ignition, jumps off the bike, and scales the fire escape before he even realizes what he’s done. Crouching down, he peers through the windows. Fifth floor, west, rear apartment. Jason’s in the right place.

Through the first window, he has a view of Jess sitting in front of a computer, back facing Jason. He quickly moves onto the next. It’s a living room, empty, and the window is cracked open. Jason gently opens it further and slips inside, landing on the rug. He peers into the bathroom and then the kitchen of the shoebox apartment, but you’re not there. Shit. You must have already left.

He’s back through the window and on the street in seconds. You can’t have gone far, and Jason doesn’t have to guess where you went. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and hastily types “bar” into Google Maps. You’re at the first one he walks into.

Jason takes a moment to get his bearings. It's a dive bar, and mostly empty. Only five barstools are occupied, including yours. You're talking to the bartender animatedly, an easy smile on your face. You seem relaxed. To Jason's dismay, there's already a drink in your hand.

Fuck. He's too late. He has to stop you before you do any more damage.

Steeling himself, Jason moves toward you, silently positioning himself on your left side. It takes you a couple of seconds to notice him, but when you do, your eyes travel up his body slowly. When they meet his own your face is mean, your mouth set into a sneer. "Hey, sweetheart," you drawl, tone hard. You bring the glass to your lips.

Jason reaches out to stop you, laying a hand on your wrist. "Baby, don't. Don't do this."

"Fuck you.”

He winces. Not like he doesn’t deserve it.

“Let me take you home,” he pleads with you. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

You turn away from him, let him wait out the silence. Jason sighs, looks to the bartender. “How much has she had to drink?”

The bartender eyes you warily. “Seven shots of vodka in the last twenty minutes, plus that whiskey sour in her hand.”

Fuck. Fuck. He has to get you out of here.

“Sweetheart, we gotta go home,” he tries again, pitching his voice low. “Let me take you back to your apartment.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you spit at him. Again, you try to take a sip of your drink, but Jason’s arm keeps yours in place. “Get off me,” you hiss at him. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Uh, ma’am, do you know this guy? Do you want him here?” the bartender cuts in, eyeing Jason. “Because if not, I’m gonna have to call the police.”

Jason almost rolls his eyes. Trust his luck to find the one bartender in Gotham actually doing a good job.

The bartender looks at you expectantly. So does Jason. Depending on your answer, things could get complicated. But he’s not leaving without you.

You roll your eyes, then wave a hand at the bartender. “Don’t sic the cops on him, he’s just my ex,” you mutter. Jason swallows down the easy way ‘ex’ had rolled off your tongue. Can’t get upset about that now. The bartender nods, then moves toward another customer, giving you some privacy.

Jason tries a third time. “I’m cutting you off, doll. You’ve had too much, too fast. Let me take you home.”

You glare at him, jaw working. Eventually, you sigh. “You’re not going to leave me alone,” you grumble.

“I’m not going to leave you alone." He won't.

“Fine. Whatever.” You hop off the barstool, flagging the bartender down to close out your tab. “Let’s go home, sweetie!” you say with mock cheer.

Jason follows you outside, briefly checking to see if you had brought a coat with you. You hadn’t, and it’s cold. Cold enough that you’ll feel it with your bare arms and t-shirt. Silently, he shrugs off his jacket, offering it to you.

“Are you fucking serious?” you say in disgusted disbelief. “Don’t make me laugh, Jason.”

Jason sets his jaw, turns onto the street to hail a cab. It’s too far to walk, especially in the cold, and odds are you’re not going to get on the back of his bike.

He observes you from his peripheral vision as he waits. You stare sightlessly at the pavement, expression blank, but your hands are curled into fists and the hair on your arms is standing up. You’re stressed, or cold, or both. Not a lot Jason can do to help.

A taxi pulls up, and Jason gives the driver your address before opening the door for you. You roll your eyes at him but slide into the cab. Jason follows, pulling the door shut behind him. You’re pressed against the opposite window, as far from him as you can get in the close space. Jason makes a show of putting on his seatbelt. You roll your eyes at him a second time before copying.

The driver pulls away from the bar, and you set your gaze resolutely out your window. Jason shifts uncomfortably in his seat, wondering what to do next. He’d gotten you out of the bar, but he can’t just drop you off at your apartment. What if you leave again, or god forbid you have some alcohol at home? No, he can’t leave you alone. He has to convince you to let him stay the night. How the hell he’s going to manage that, after he broke up with you, is beyond him.

Jason sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d really gone and made a mess for himself. Not to mention you.

“How did you find me?” Your voice slices into the silence of the cab. Jason’s not expecting you to talk, but he’s had time to think about this one. The bar was close to a safe house, the one he’d been pretending was his permanent apartment when you came over. The one you had seen through, apparently. “I was in the area, you know I’m just around the corner.”

You nod. “What were you doing at the bar?”

Jason holds his tongue. Here is an opportunity to lie again, to say that he just wanted to blow off some steam, or some other shit, and get you off his back. He chooses neither.

“I—I wanted to find you,” he admits. “I don’t know...how I knew,” he hedges, “but I was hoping you’d be there.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to—to talk.” You snort, turn back to the window. “Baby, please,” he starts, “I want to—”

“Stop.” You shake your head. “Stop.” Jason falls silent, stays that way until the cabbie reaches your building.

Immediately, you shuck off your seatbelt and slip out the door. Jason rushes to pay the driver and follow you, catching up by the time you’ve reached your lobby door. “This is your stop, Jason,” you say sharply.

He’s shaking his head before you’ve even finished. “Listen. I know. I know. But you’ve had a lot to drink, doll. Let me get you upstairs. Please. I want to make sure you’re okay.” This is unfair, and he knows it, but he can’t leave you alone.

You keep silent but step through your building's lobby and onto the elevator. Jason hits the button, and soon enough you’re on your floor, walking to your unit. Surprisingly, you don’t stop him from coming in, finding the click of the key of the lock and gently closing the door behind him.

“What do you want, Jason?” you say tiredly. “What do you want?”

He looks at you helplessly, tongue thick and heavy in his mouth as his words fail him. Sighing, you move toward your bedroom. Unthinking, Jason falls in step behind you, and you freeze, spear him with a look. “You’re a fool if you think I’m going to let you come in here again.”

Jason takes a deep breath. He's been dreading this. “Look, I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry but I—I can’t leave you like this. Please, baby, let me stay the night.”

“Why?” you say disdainfully. “You don’t care about me.”

Ouch.

“I know I said—what I said, but I was wrong. I was scared,” he admits.

You stare at him, narrowing your eyes, saying nothing. Jason takes it for the cue that it is.

“I was scared, and, and I’m scared now,” he says in a low voice. “You had a lot to drink, and on an empty stomach, doll.” And he has to make sure you don’t drink any more tonight. He has to.

You snort at him. “I’ll be fine. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

Jason keeps his eyes on yours. “Please,” he asks quietly. He’s not above begging, not for you. “Please let me stay the night.”

Staying still, you exhale slowly, breathing out through your nose. Your hard eyes don’t soften. “On the couch,” you order, then disappear into your bedroom.

Jason breathes a sigh of relief. At least now he can keep you safe.

—

You wake up in your bed.

There is no prelude. You don't get a soft, gradual ascent from your sleep. You aren't awake, and then you are.

Shame cloaks you like a vice.

More pressing, however, is the vomit you can taste in the back of your throat.

You stagger to the bathroom, slamming the door behind you and thumbing the lock. Your knees hit the cracked tile of the floor, the toilet lid smacks against the tank, and your face is in the bowl. You heave. The smell is vile, the retching tears your throat apart.

You cradle your head in your arms, elbows resting on the cool porcelain of the seat as your stomach empties itself. You don't move when it's over, although the smell fills your nose and the ends of your hair drip into the toilet.

Fuck. Fuck. You've gone and ruined it all.

Exhaling, you allow yourself to collapse to the floor, not bothering to flush. Curling your arms into your chest, you begin to sob. You'd gone and fucked it all up, just like you'd always known you would.

You knew, you knew, that you would end up back here. Sobriety was a sham. Everyone thought you could do it, but you're the one who has to sleep in your skin every night. You knew you didn't have it in you, that addiction was ground into your bones, a black hole emanating out from your center that you could never keep a lid on. You had always known that there was something awful inside of you that you would never quite be able to manage, and now here it was, crawling up your throat and spilling out into the toilet.

Quick as they started, your sobs leave you in a rush. You stay on the floor, smelling the vomit, staring at your bathroom ceiling. You were never going to be able to hack it.

The doorknob jiggles. "Baby?" Jason calls out cautiously.

"Don't."

That asshole. Of course he's still here, of course he gets to see you like this. It's not enough that he broke your heart over text, where at least you could hide, instead he has to show up in person and see what a mess he's made you.

The doorknob shakes again. “Baby, please—”

“Get out.” You squeeze your eyes shut. Please leave. Leave. Leaveleaveleave—

“No. Not until we talk,” he says stubbornly.

Fuck that. Suddenly, you’re furious, anger ripping through your gut. You greedily latch onto it, using it to distract from your self-loathing. That asshole thinks he can stay, thinks he has any right to be here, after what he did to you?

Fuck him.

“Get the fuck out of my apartment,” you snarl at him through the door.

“I’m not leaving,” he insists. You let out a shocked laugh, then inhale sharply, gritting your teeth.

Fine. Fine. Guess you’re doing this.

You pull yourself to your feet, survey your reflection in the mirror. Jason may have heard your retching, may have seen you at your lowest last night, but you will not, you will not let him see you like that now. You wash your face, run water over your hair to get the vomit out, brush your teeth. Flush the toilet. Your face is puffy but when your eyes are clear, you unlock the bathroom door and throw it open.

“What the fuck do you want?” you snap at him. As always, Jason looks gorgeous, even after spending a night on your couch. Hair a messy bedhead, clothes deliciously rumpled. You want him so bad it makes you sick. Then you think of your own appearance, last night’s clothes that reek of sweat sticking ugly to your skin, hair frizzy and unkempt, and you want to kill him. Fuck this motherfucker for looking so perfect while you look and feel like trash.

Jason holds something out to you. Pulling your eyes down, you realize he’s offering you a glass of water. You want to hurl it against the wall. Instead, you take it from him, turn, and dump it into the toilet. Handing it back, you stalk past him into the kitchen and get yourself a bottle of water. You’re not taking anything from him.

“Baby,” he follows. “Please, let me—”

“Get out of my apartment.”

“Wait,” Jason says. “Wait. I want to—”

“Get out of my apartment.”

“Sweetheart.” He starts to sound frustrated. Good. If he wants to stay, he's going to get the fight you're itching for. “Let me finish. I have to—”

“Get out of my apartment before I call the police.”

He’s angry now, you can see it on his face. You feel vicious. “You’re not listening. Listen, you have to listen to me.”

How dare he. “I don’t have to do anything!” you shout at him. “I don’t have to do anything for you, not after what you did to me!”

“I was wrong,” Jason presses on, raising his voice to talk over you. “I was wrong, I shouldn’t have said that, I was sc—”

“I don’t care!” you scream at him. “You ended it! It’s over!”

“I still care about you!” Jason shouts back, “I care about you, I’m telling you I made a mistake!”

“I don’t care what you think of me now! Too late! I don’t care anymore! You broke up with me!” You will yourself not to cry as your anger surges. “You made your bed, now lie in it!”

“I’m telling you I shouldn’t have done it, I’m telling you I was wrong, I’m trying to apologize! Why can’t you—”

"You can't just take it back! You already did it, it's too late, I don't want to—"

"Shut up!" Jason roars. "Shut up and listen to me, I'm trying to apologize!"

"No!" You stalk towards him, and something in your face makes him take a step back. "I don't owe you anything! You already said everything you need to say. You already hurt me, now I'm never going to trust you again!"

Jason looks like you've knocked the wind out of him. Some part of you grins cruelly. You want to do it again. "You hurt me, so I'm never going to trust you again."

Jason exhales, remains of his anger sliding off his face. You're still breathing heavily, glowering at him, waiting for what he’s going to say next.

"You're right," he says eventually, voice low. "You're right, you don't owe me anything. I—I'm sorry I yelled at you. You don't owe me anything."

You stare at him through narrowed eyes, coming down off your own fury. Jason isn't looking at you, he's looking at the floor, jaw flexing as he chews on the inside of his cheek. He looks...he looks upset.

You slam your eyes shut before you can register the thought. Who cares if he looks upset, you think to yourself harshly. Who cares? The motherfucker deserves it, after what he did. Still, the savagery that burned bright inside you dwindles to a candle with a single wick, threatening to go out entirely.

Maybe he's just tricking you, manipulating you, you try and remind yourself, but you don't really believe it. That was never Jason's style. You crack your eyes open. If anything, he looks even worse now, but he's still not looking at you, not analyzing you to gauge your reaction, to see if his words had any pull. He's not pleading with you anymore, either. Jason must really be upset. Now you have to figure out what to do with that.

You sigh, clearing your throat. Jason flinches and tries to school his expression into place before giving up and meeting your eyes. He doesn't say anything, waiting for you to make the next move. The ball is in your court.

You stare at him for several moments, trying to work out what to do. Jason stares back silently. "I'll leave," Jason says, voice cracking. You open your mouth, then close it, unsure of what to say. "Do you still want me to go?" Jason's face is a mess, but his brow is furrowed as he tries to figure you out, figure out what you want him to do.

You run a hand across your face. Damn it. Damn this asshole for the hold he has over you. The same idiocy that has you reaching for the bottle moves you to offer him another chance.

"I don't want to talk here," you whisper. Jason sucks in a breath, but you talk over him. "We can talk later. Another time."

"Today?"

You shake your head. "No. In a couple days. I'll text you." You leave yourself an out you can slither through if you need it. You won't give him anything else.

Jason's looks like he's going to argue, but you give him a warning look. He shuts himself down. "Okay," he says quietly. "Okay. I'll wait for your text."

You nod, exhausted. "Get out of my apartment," you say, but without heat. This time, Jason goes. You shut the door heavily behind him, then rest your shoulder against it as the tears start to fall. You bite your tongue sharp enough to draw blood to keep the sobs inside you.

Fuck him, you think again, but this time with despair instead of anger. Fuck him for sending you back to that place, for shoving you a thousand steps backward. You're faced again with how you slipped last night, self-loathing threatening to pull you under. But you're not on the bathroom floor anymore, and you realize that cleaning yourself up has put you back in control, if only slightly. You take a deep breath, reaching for the strategies you practiced with your therapist. You force yourself into positive self-talk. It’s okay, you resolutely assure yourself. It’s okay. Everyone makes mistakes. Everybody slips. This doesn’t have to mean the end. It doesn’t. It doesn’t mean you’re going to fall back head over heels into addiction. You’re not twenty-two anymore. You’re not…where you were, when things got really bad. When you broke yourself on the alcohol because you couldn’t tell when a bad habit became a crutch, couldn’t recognize when a few drinks here and there became active addiction. Your family is much closer now, your mom and your sister are back in touch and they know what you’re struggling with. Your friends and family have supported you before, they’ll do it again.

You put your face in your hands and take deep, measured breaths. You’ve pulled yourself out of active addiction before. You can do it again. That doesn't mean you'll have to, but you can. If you need to.

You stand up off the floor, pick up your water from where you left it on the counter. Take a long drink, then wipe your hand over your mouth. You can do this. You can do this. You can take a shower, find some breakfast, go to work in the morning, and move on. You can text Jason. Maybe.

But first, you need to get through the next fifteen minutes. You pick up your phone and call your mom.

—

Jason sits on a park bench, drumming his fingers anxiously on his thigh. He’s ten blocks south of your apartment, in one of those fancy new city parks Bruce had funded. It’s a cool, crisp fall day in Gotham, and Jason was supposed to meet you here thirteen minutes ago.

He’s been here for nearly thirty minutes. He was fifteen minutes early, nerves driving him out of his apartment and onto his bike. Since he left your place last week he’d waited anxiously for you to text him about meeting up, but after 72 hours of radio silence he’d nearly given up hope. Your text had almost come as a surprise, a terse message telling him when and where. Jason had fired back a reply instantly, he had no room left to be suave. He was just grateful you’d decided to give him a second chance.

And now here he was, searching for your face in the people that walk past, waiting again, hoping you didn’t stand him up.

But no, there you are, moving resolutely toward him with a face that gives nothing away. Jason stands almost before he decides to. As anxious as he is, he’s thrilled to see you again. “Hi, sweetheart,” he says, unable to stop the grin from splitting his face in half.

You nod. “Sorry I’m late.”

Jason waves you off, sitting back down. You eye him before sitting down carefully, perched just close enough to have a conversation with him but no closer. You look at him expectantly.

Right.

Jason takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I—I’m so sorry, baby. I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have sent you that text.” He digs his fingernails into his palms. “I—I really care about you, and I got scared, and—”

“If you’re about to tell me that you were scared by how much you care about me, I’m walking out of here right now,” you interrupt with a warning. “I won’t be manipulated.”

“I’m, I’m not trying to manipulate you,” Jason says gently, afraid that you think he ever would. He lies to you when he has to, and he's not proud of it, but he’d never mess you around like that. “I’m not. I wouldn’t do that, doll. I’m telling the truth.” You stare at him, gaze hard. “Honest,” Jason adds, hoping you believe him.

“Are you saying you regret breaking up with me over text, or you regret breaking up with me?” you demand.

“I regret breaking up with you!” The words tumble out of Jason’s mouth. “I messed up, I was a fuckhead who got scared of my own feelings. Not trying to manipulate you,” he adds hurriedly. “Just telling the truth. It’s—it's been a long time since I’ve been serious with someone. Actually,” he takes another deep breath. “This is the only time I’ve been serious with someone. Being with you is the longest relationship I’ve been in to date.”

He stops here to see how you’re taking his words, and to give himself a break. He's doing so shockingly well at sharing his feelings with you, he's almost surprised.

He's glad he showed up for himself. You're worth it.

Jason peers over at you from his side of the bench, trying to gauge where you're at. Your eyes haven't softened, but the line of your mouth has loosened, jaw more relaxed. Jason pushes onward.

"I—I've got some shit, sweetheart," he says quietly, carefully. "I grew up in Crime Alley. My dad wasn't around, and my mother was a druggie. She died when I was ten." He closes his eyes. Jason is so far removed from that life, so distant from that distant past, but it doesn't get any easier to talk about. It's—it's hard. It's still hard.

"I went into...foster care," he says. He has to lie here, he can't chance you putting together the Jason Todd that went to live with Bruce Wayne and the Jason Todd that died tragically two years later. He isn't ready to tell you about that, not yet. He figures he's allowed this much. "At first, it was great with my foster father, but then...it wasn't. I ran away a few years later." Jason maneuvers around the snarled timeline. "I was on and off the streets for a bit there. I got into some...bad shit. But things are better now. I'm trying to be better," he finishes stubbornly. He is, despite what Bruce might say.

Jason can't get himself to look at you, not after depositing all that shit into your lap. Instead, he glares emptily into the horizon until you sigh, then clear your throat.

"Thank you for telling me that," you say evenly. Jason whips his head up to stare at you. "I appreciate you..." You pause, sucking on your teeth as you choose your words. "You giving me some background."

Jason is silent, still. He doesn't want to move, doesn't want to breathe until you've finished. Until you tell him...what you want to do next.

If you're even considering staying with him, after all this.

You sigh again, swallow thickly. "I've...you're not the only one who has shit." You go silent, looking away. He waits patiently, guessing at what's coming.

"I'm a recovering alcoholic," you say, matter-of-fact. Jason winces, even though he already knew. Still, he has to ask.

"Does that mean...last night..." he trails off.

You look at him steadily. "Yeah. That's what that was."

"Fuck, princess, I'm...I'm so sorry," he says brokenly, guilt spilling out. "I'm so sorry I did that to you."

"Thanks," you say quietly. "Look, I, I want to explain. Uh..." you look away, blinking. "It got really bad when my Dad died. It was really sudden, car accident. Hit and run."

Shit. Jason grips the sleeves of his jacket, tension rippling through his forearms.

"My family just kind of...fell apart, after that. My sister and my mom got really distant, and I was away at college and I just...yeah." You suck in a breath. "A couple of years later, I got into a car accident. It was a DUI. I was okay, but it kind of...woke my sister and my mom up, I guess. They helped me recover."

Jason waits a couple of moments after you go silent, making sure you're finished. "Thank you for telling me," he says, copying you. "I'm so sorry that happened to you, that you lost your father like that," he says gently. "That...that sounds really bad."

You shrug. "We all have our shit, you know?" Yeah.

The two of you fall silent, chewing through your confessions. Jason runs a hand through his hair, across the back of his neck. He didn’t realize you were carrying all that on your shoulders. It makes him view you differently. You’re…tougher, than he thought. You’re made of stronger stuff. He needs someone like that, he thinks. Someone who might understand. Maybe the two of you are well-suited for each other.

That is, if you’re still willing to try.

He clears his throat, and you glance at him. “So, what, uh,” he coughs awkwardly. “What happens now?” Jason holds his breath.

You stare at him for a moment, eyes narrow. Then you sigh, slide over to him. “Now,” you let your shoulders bump against his, “you’re going to take me to the coffee shop across the street and buy me an overpriced latte. As an apology.”

Jason’s heart soars. “Not one of those stupid flavors,” he snorts through a grin.

“Yeah, one of those stupid flavors. It’s going to be a large, and I’m going to add, like, four extra flavor pumps, because you were being such an ass. And I’m getting a cookie.” You raise an eyebrow at him, daring him to comment.

Jason stands up, offering you a hand. “Anything for you, doll.”

You accept his hand, but then surprise him, pulling hard enough to make him stumble, legs hitting the bench. He regains his balance as you laugh at him, hopping up. “That’s right,” you look at him meaningfully over your shoulder. “Anything for me.”

Raising his eyebrows, Jason nods at your challenge. Yeah. He can do that.

Satisfied, you slip your hand in his and lead him towards the coffee shop.

----

anyway. that was fun. i hope you had fun.

tagging: @candlewitch-cryptic @somenerdydancer

[bengiyo]

Hi, i'm a newish bl drama watcher from thailand that just started watching thai bls. i'm a bit ashamed to say that for a long time as a gay man living here i've been avoiding bl shows like the plague cuz of both the fandom reputation and of misconception from my yaoi era which i leave far behind. i'm just want to ask how did you got into watching thai bls and what were you preconception before you got into it.

Welcome to the Tumblr side of BL fandom. I'd actually like to also hear more of your experience with yaoi and BL as a gay person growing up in Thailand if you're willing to share.

For me, I'm a Black American from the Gulf Coast (the South). I grew up in a Catholic city and spent my entire adolescence in the closet. Despite having a sense of who I was as early as 8 years old, I kept most of that to myself. Because I didn't talk about it much with people, I found out most information about queer media and queerness from the internet.

I entered BL via queer cinema. I think the first explicitly gay character that I remember from TV was Marco from Degrassi: The Next Generation. There were probably others, and definitely more subtle expressions, but when I think about the oldest gay character I remember and connect to, it's Marco. I don't like counting things like shipping Shawn and Corey on Boy Meets World or Tai and Matt on Digimon for oldest gay characters. Sailor Moon can't even count because we got a censored version of it in America.

I got access to satellite television away from observing eyes around age 16 and started watching content on Logo back when they aired gay content regularly. I watched basically whatever I could late at night. It's how I saw movies like Get Real (1998), Beautiful Thing (1996), and Bent (1997). It's also how I saw Queer as Folk (2000-2005) Noah's Arc (2005-06).

After hitting adulthood I mostly got lost in video games and standard American TV for a while, but I did basically show up to any Gay Event in TV. I appreciate that Stef and Lena from The Fosters (2013-2018) were some of the only TV lesbians to survive the horror of 2016.

I watched a bunch of movies in this time, many of which appear on the Queer Cinema Syllabus I made for a hypothetical Westerner new to BL and queer cinema, which @wen-kexing-apologist has decided to try to complete.

I got into Thai BL in 2018 accidentally. I started seeing gifsets of Kongpob telling Arthit he'll make him his wife passing around Tumblr and was basically like, "Right, what's all this then?"

I had watched a few Thai gay films, mostly notably Love of Siam (2007), Bangkok Love Story (2007), How to Win at Checkers Every Time (2015), and The Blue Hour (2015), but this was the first time I was seeing a long series made available so easily from any Asian country.

From there I got into Make It Right (2016-17) and Love Sick the series (2014). Once I realized that yaoi had moved beyond manga and a few anime adaptations, I went looking for a lot more. I basically haven't left since I started in about 2016 with SOTUS.

There's my basic entry into the genre. I don't think I was as worried about fandom and worries at the time because so much of being a fan of queer cinema was a mostly-private experience for me for so long. I didn't realize that BL fans active in the space would predominantly be women or queers figuring themselves out. It took a while to adjust to that, and also to adjust my expectations of the kinds of queer stories BL distributors were willing to fund.

That being said, I tend to agree with @absolutebl that BL has a useful role in normalization for non-queer audiences who encounter it. I like cheering BL when it does things I think work really well, and also deriding it when I think it does things that are offensive to help nudge the genre and offer my perspective as a gay man.

I like the place we're at right now where there's way too much to watch for any person with other hobbies and responsibilities because it means that people can pick and choose what's to their tastes.

More often than not, I'm probably most-invested in something airing from Japan because of my melancholy nature, but there's so much variety these days that it's okay if you don't like everything. I certainly don't!

I'm glad you joined us on Tumblr and look forward to your thoughts!

[sockatoothewafflebird]

THE AMAZING DIGITAL FALLOUT

i've kind of left this au dry. sorry about that 😓

i haven't drawn or written for it in weeks and i've kind of lost motivation for it, but i wanna post the stuff i finished anyway and i know some of you only follow me for tadc stuff 💀 so here ya go! once again my deepest apologies for abandoning this. i may come back to it in the future though, who knows!

this post is a work-in-progress, btw. i'll add things when i feel like it until i've put everything i need to here.

CHARACTERS (WIP)

STORY

Fifty years ago, a decade-long war turned nuclear, and now the world is in shambles. Just before everything went to shit, though... two brothers, wealthy businessmen with a passion for science, came up with an idea. They would build huge bunkers to preserve humanity, while figuring out ways to fight off any damage done by the war.

Then, when the bombs and chemicals started dropping, they opened the gates to their vaults too late. Their plan to preserve humanity only technically worked. The radiation and chemical damage had already been done, and now people were being born with unusually and fascinatingly cartoonish features.

Those in the vaults didn't become too crazy. But those left outside became increasingly mutated, to the point where rabbit-people and people made of what seemed to be wood (just two examples of many) were being born left and right.

The two beothers gree further apart, their goals and beliefs vastly different and the cracks in society forming along with the cracks in their brotherhood. Eventually, one of them left in pursuit of his own dreams. He started an organization he calls "The Circus," much to his brother's dismay.

Present day, Pomni is working under Able as a head scientist when Vault #004 is raided and ambushed by The Circus and a mob of abstracted folk. And her whole world is turned on its head.

--

LINKS

the fic on AO3 (i probably won't add anything to it other than maybe an overview of the plot)

DANGER sign (and zooble)

--

if you have any questions about anything specific lemme know and i'll try my best to answer. i'll add links to any of that important stuff here when it comes up so no one's left out.

[a-court-of-lust-and-stardust]

Rain

My contribution to @elriel-month. This is just something I decided to whip up for my friends and other folks to read. Ever since joining the fandom in December 2023, I've met so many kindhearted Elriel fans that I wanted to give back to. This little piece is probably best for the Choice prompt. (Yes, I'm late. Sue me.) Go easy on me please, as I haven't written for a fandom in years lol.

*Inspired by the song Rain by Sleep Token, who I just know Azriel would be a fan of*

Word Count: 1.5k

*Divider by @tsunami-of-tears* (Check out their blog and other pretty dividers!!)

Pain. Blood. Torture. Death. 

For the better part of five hundred years, Azriel has been subjected to unfathomable horrors, the kinds that would no doubt break a human male’s spirit. As the Night Court’s stealthy spymaster and feared shadowsinger, it’s been his job to inflict unendurable pain upon the bodies of his enemies. He spills their traitorous blood and tortures them into the long hours of the night until they have no choice but to finally succumb to death’s sweet song. 

It’s become a routine, so much so that the panicked screams and the precise slicing of his most prized dagger feel like second nature. He doesn’t blink as they plead for their lives. He doesn’t flinch as crimson liquid splatters across his cheeks, in his hair, down his hands. He takes away life as easily as the Mother creates it. And just as Rhysand has perfected the mask of the High Lord, Azriel has mastered his own cruel, stoic front. 

On nights like tonight, however, Azriel questions if he truly does have a mask, or if the centuries spent brutally maiming wolves in sheep's skin has turned him into an irreparable monster. The voices in his head are loud enough to wake creatures that have been asleep for hundreds of years, and a long flight around Velaris does nothing to silence them. Even the shadows at his shoulders swirl in agitation as the words replay on a loop in his mind. 

Killer. 

Bastard. 

Good for nothing. 

Irredeemable. 

Unworthy. 

It is only until he gently opens the front door to his home that he feels some kind of relief. The kitchen smells like jasmine and banana bread, courtesy of the warm loaf cooling down on the marble countertop. A cozy heat burns from the stone fireplace, and the lights in every room are dimmed to a soft glow. And he only permits himself to breathe when his hazel eyes connect with the beautiful brown ones that belong to the most exquisite female he’s ever had the pleasure of calling his. 

Elain Archeron. His love. His lifeline. His Mother-given solace. 

She rises from the sofa, setting aside her book and abandoning the treat she’d been munching on to stand before him. He doesn’t move or speak as her eyes drink him in, observing the blood on his leathers and assessing for visible injuries. Satisfied with the lack of wounds, Elain gives him a small smile and gently reaches for his hand, guiding him into the bathroom. 

Hot steam and the scent of eucalyptus fill the air as Elain turns on the shower. It was the first renovation they’d wanted for their home, a bathing stall large enough to accommodate the both of them, along with the width of Illyrian wings. 

Azriel watches as Elain delicately works the soiled leathers down his body. Her brows furrow slightly at a few small gashes along his chest and side, but before she can fret, his thumb rubs away the tension from the crease. 

“I’m okay,” he says. He means it, too. Her presence has always been a comfort for him. All he’s ever felt around her was peace, something he never thought he would find let alone deserve. On nights where his thoughts run rampant, a soft smile is enough to break the vicious cycle of self criticism. 

Her lips quirk, not fully believing him. Azriel may be the spymaster who can conceal his emotions with ease, but Elain had effortlessly clocked the haunted look in his eyes when he’d first crossed the threshold. “Physically, yes. But I worry more about what goes on up here,” She taps his temple twice. “What can I do to help?” 

Elain’s perception astonishes him. Her ability to pick up the subtle changes in his voice or mood has only grown sharper the longer they’ve been together. Their quiet understanding of each other is something neither one will ever take for granted. To be loved is to be seen, to be wholly understood, and they’ve never taken their eyes off each other since the moment they met. 

But his thoughts were a bit too loud tonight, and the last thing Azriel ever wants is for Elain to worry. And so he says, “You’ve done more than enough already, my love, by simply being here with me. Let me wash, and then I’ll read with you, hm?” With a chaste kiss to her forehead, Azriel enters the shower and slides the door closed. 

Searing water pelts his skin when he steps underneath the shower head hanging from the ceiling. The droplets feel like rain, cleansing him of every violent act he willingly committed in the last several hours as part of his duty to the court. Hands braced against the wall, he silently watches the bloody water race down his body and swirl around the drain. His eyes flutter momentarily, allowing the heat to soak into his aching muscles. 

Behind him, a soft palm latches onto his bicep, turning him from the wall. Elain stands before him, wet and gloriously naked, with a bottle of shampoo in her other hand. She waits for his permission, letting her back hit the cool tile as he cages her against the opposite wall. When he nods, eyes never breaking from hers, she lathers the shampoo in her hands. 

“What are you thinking about?” Elain probes gently, delicate fingers working the soap into his hair. Azriel can’t stop himself from leaning into her touch, allowing her to take care of him in the way only she knows how. 

After a long moment, he whispers hoarsely, “Sometimes I wonder if this is who I am. That this job…this life…that in trying to rid the world of evil, I’ve become it.” His throat bobs once as a few tears slip down his cheeks. “Some days the thoughts are louder than others. Tonight they were relentless.” 

Elain listens intently, switching to a bar of soap to clean his chest, his arms, his back and legs, and finally his wings. All he can do is gaze at this beautiful female as he pours his heart out. He’s never been a man of many words, but Elain makes him want to talk forever. To share his joy, his pain. His hopes and fears. To shed his armor and bare his soul to her. 

“When I came home,” he breathes, fingers moving from the wall to trail down her cheek, her neck. Her skin flushes, and not from the heat of the water. Azriel chuckles softly. “All it took was one look from you and my head went quiet. The power you hold, Elain…not a single person in this world has ever been able to do what you’ve done for me.” 

She’s trying to focus on his words, the love that fills them, but gasps a breath as his hand skims down the side of her breast, warmth building in her core. He can scent it, she knows, by the way his nose flares slightly. “And how exactly do I look at you?” 

The corners of his lips twitch upward, palm finally resting against her hip. He tugs her closer so their chests touch, never wanting to have even a sliver of space between them. “Like I’m worthy,” he answers. “Of love and happiness and everything in between. All things that I’ve found once you waltzed into my life and chose me.” 

A choice that he would never truly believe was real, if only considering it a beautiful dream. 

A choice that Elain had made with such unwavering conviction, it had brought him to tears. 

A choice that allowed them to love each other openly, for the rest of their existence. 

“You’ve always been worthy, Azriel,” Elain says, mouth ghosting over his own as her hands tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Your job is not who you are. You put on a mask and play a role, just like we all do. And underneath that mask, is the most gentle, kind-hearted, beautiful male. Choosing you was the easiest decision of my life because you made it easy, just by being who you are. And I will continue to choose you until my last breath.” 

He lets the tears fall freely now because vulnerability has never been something to shy away from, not with her. She tenderly wipes the tears with her thumbs, holding his face with a gentleness that shatters his heart.   

“I’ve waited for you for a very long time, Elain, to the point where I almost gave up on finding any semblance of love or joy or tranquility,” Azriel says truthfully. The sheer longing in his bright hazel eyes tugs on her heart strings. 

“Well, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, handsome,” She replies playfully through a wet laugh, bumping her nose against his as tears mix with water. “But I hope you know that I would choose you in every single lifetime, no matter what. You are so completely mine, Azriel.” 

He kisses her. He kisses her hard and long and fierce, claiming her mouth with a passion solely reserved for her alone. His arms slide underneath her thighs, laughing quietly at her brief shriek as he lifts her against the wall, one hand gripping her wrists against the tile above her head. The wicked smile she flashes his way is as stunning as a sunflower field in springtime, and the only thought now in his mind is how utterly thankful he is for the beautiful female in front of him. 

“And you, Elain Archeron, are so completely mine.”

[interstyx]

THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING

I adore this show to my core and it'll stay in my heart of hearts as one of my favorite pieces of fiction ever made. There's few things out there more laser-aimed to my tastes -- media hardly ever makes me feel any emotions but somehow MD got me consistently giddy & sad & horrified the whole way through.

This show found me at an utter nadir. I was feeling like shit, facing a shit job, creatively dead, lonely and regressing into all those personal failings that surface when things don't go right. I only decided to hatewatch it at around the time ep2 dropped with some friends because I needed something to be angry at, and found myself with butterflies in my stomach as ep2 came to a close.

The stylistic flairs of this show speak to me in a way that I haven't been spoken to for a decade. Writing cringe and all, unapologetic anime-isms, the delightfully realized body horror. Even back then, as soon as EP3 dropped, I felt like I had a pulse on this show, where it was going, what it wanted to do -- even when it makes mistakes, even when I dislike decisions, I feel like I get it, I see the vision, and I love it even more for it where things like these would have killed my joy dead back when.

And the writing community -- I never ever in my life expected to meet so many incredibly inspired, dedicated folks out here, not a week goes that I give your fics a read and come out angry-laughing at how fucking good this stuff is. As a lifelong pessimist and infamously dour shitheel when it comes to writing this stuff is invaluable to me.

It's been more than two years since then, and I sincerely believe this has been the greatest years of my life. I am renewed and happy with my creative endeavors. The theories, the projects, the writing talks, the stupid crack shit, it's made my recent life worth living when things were shite and made it shine much more when things got better, got so much dark stuff out of my skull and made it art that I can look back and love, smile when time passes and it doesn't tarnish in that hurtful way one's works do when it gets late at night and the same ol', same ol' creative dread creeps into your head.

This all amounts to a fairly unnoteworthy fandom appreciation letter -- I know it does. Maybe because it's my first and I've never cared to watch things as they air, maybe I just don't have the words in me to put what's in my heart out there into the screen.

I suppose "I love you all" is the most sincere way to say it. I genuinely do. Thank you for the art, the heart-wrenching fanfic, the discussions, the beautiful cringy art, the joy of my life since all the way back in '22. Thanks to all my friends I made here. Thanks to the insanely awesome Glitch team for delivering pure stylistic kino unmatched in history. Thanks to Liam Vickers for sticking with his insane fucking isms since circa 2010 until he saw it through.

I'll hold all this and more in my cruddy little heart where it hardly fits for all my life. I've got plenty more fanfic in me to write and read and I'm giddy to see it all through.

Thank you for reading this, no matter what you thought of that ending or how your opinion of the show's evolved. No matter the brisk turns life takes, there's nothing in the world that means more to me than that people are willing to read what I write.

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon - Witcher Senses: Smell

Jaskier knows a great many things about Witchers, many of which are common knowledge, like their enhanced vision, strength, etc. Some are known only to him. For example, he is probably the only human being that knows Witchers pur, and like chin/cheek skritches. And catnip makes their pupils dilate and makes them see gods.

Jaskier doesn't count those as enhancements, they are more like bonus features.

Jaskier knows Geralt's sense of smell, like his hearing, is likewise far better than a human's.

Geralt can tell where he's been just by the scents he's picked up while on his outings in town.

Geralt: You're late. Stopped at Vespula's on the way back, didn't you?

Jaskier: *stammering, sputtering*

Geralt: You smell like laundry soap and hanky-panky

Jaskier: *offended bard noises*

He can tell when he is ill by his scent.

"You smell off."

"How rude!"

Geralt can tell what Jaskier got drunk off by the way his sweat smells as his body metabolizes the alcohol.

His nose is sensitive enough to pick up on Jaskier's moods by how his scent changes.

Having a sensitive sense of smell does have it's drawbacks. Strong smells are even more pungent. Smells like some of Jaskier's perfumes and scents. Sometimes the bard just uses way too much, or uses one that is just nauseating.

And of course, there's the embarrassing, uncontrollable reaction he has when he encounters an unfamiliar smell.

Jaskier got to see it for the first time one spring, and it was the funniest d*mn thing he'd seen in a while.

Jaskier met Geralt outside of Vengerberg. He'd hugged his companion, and was confused by Geralt's reaction.

Geralt: *smelling a new scent on Jaskier*

Geralt's brain: What's that smell? We haven't smelled that before. Time to analyze!

Geralt: *mouth open, upper lip raised*

Jaskier: What the f**k is that face?

Geralt: Hm! *awkward*

Sorry, I've just never seen you make that face before.

Geralt had given him The Look. The Look that meant he had just revealed something personal he had not wished to share, and that if Jaskier opened his mouth to ever mention it, he would be missing all his teeth.

"Is that a Geralt thing, or a Witcher thing?"

"Witcher" Geralt reluctantly grumbled, more embarrassed when he realized that he was sniffing Jaskier again.

Jaskier realized that Geralt was scenting the perfume he'd bought that morning at the market and decided to try out.

"It's my perfume." He supplied, " It's lavender and rosemary, with a little bergamot. It's not too strong, is it?"

"No. Just didn't recognize the scent combination..."

Jaskier hummed in understanding, promising that he would keep the secret of the Stink Face. He gleefully filed that information away. And Jaskier, being the little hellion is his, decides to find rare scent combinations to expose Geralt to.

For research purposes. Yeah. Purely for educational purposes.

It was hard to find smells that Geralt was unfamiliar with. He had lived a long time, and had a huge olfactory library of scents. He could tell monsters apart just from how their guts smelled.

Jaskier was going to have to try harder if he wanted to get Geralt to make what he'd dubbed the Stink Face again.

And he had to play it cool. Couldn't let the gloomy b**tard know what he was doing! Good thing Geralt was well aware of his love for fashionable toiletries!

Nothing to see here, folks, just a bard that loves his personal grooming items! Nothing suspicious going on here!

Jaskier begins visiting every market in every town they stop at, buying the latest toiletries, and trying them out in their rented room or at camp. Often times shoving the items under Geralt's nose to get his "opinion."

"Oh, that smells nice! Don't you think this smells nice, Geralt?"

Geralt: *Stink Face*

Jaskier *internally*: Haha, YES!

Jaskier *externally pretending not to have noticed*: What do you think?

Yes, it is a light, fresh scent! I agree!

*offended gasp* What do you mean "Not strong enough to cover up the stink of my ball sweat"?

That was uncalled for, Geralt!

Geralt had just 'hmmed' smuggly and turned to finish brushing Roach.

The next item Jaskier had purchased had been a new scent that even he'd never smelled. It was lavender, mixed with something called 'vanilla'.

Ooh, lavendar and vanilla! Let's see what that smells like!

Oh. Oh, wow. *cough* That's a bit strong!

Whew! It's really, just wafting right out!

Geralt, clear on the other side of the camp: *instant Stink Face*

"What the f**k-!" He'd snarled after his brain had cataloged the smell

"It's got 'vanilla' in it," Jaskier explained, noting the frown on Geralt's face, "it's some kind of bean from across the sea! It smells sweet, right?"

"It's f***ing strong!"

Jaskier, for some reason, was mildly offended at the comment, and quipped "Haha, yeah, I figured I needed something strong enough to cover up the stink of my ball sweat--!"

Geralt brandished the leather belt he used to tie up his bedroll, waving it threateningly.

Jaskier *grinning rakishly*: Ooh, are you threatening me with a good time?

Roach had made a sound that was suspiciously similar to a human chuckle, and Geralt had glowered at her.

Et tu, Roach?

He settles for slapping the bard on the back of the head.

Jaskier inadvertantly gets his revenge days later, and finds out another thing about Witchers. They hated citrus.

Geralt knows Jaskier has bought another bath product to try out when he comes up the stairs with the serving girls laden with the tub and buckets of hot water.

Geralt goes down to check on Roach while Jaskier bathes. When he comes back, ready to lie down and sleep, Jaskier is finished, and...

And the f**ker STINKS! It's got a very noticably citrus quality to it.

Jaskier: Geralt, what's wrong?

Geralt: *face twisting up*

Jaskier *trying not to laugh*: Er, Geralt?

Geralt: What the ever-loving f**k is that smell?

"It's the latest soap scent! It's orange blossom!

Geralt was not happy about the citrus scent. He hated the smell of citrus! And this little ar**hole had just bathed in the wretched stuff! The sweet smell of the vanilla couldn't keep the citrus tang from stinging his nostrils.

Geralt had opened the window, crawled into bed, and covered his nose with the blanket. He had to explain to the bard about Witchers hating citrus because it burned their sinuses.

Jaskier had had the decency to look ashamed, but even after profuse apologies had been made, Geralt had hissed at him and refused to allow him into the bed.

Jaskier ended up scrubbing himself down out in the laundry shed with hot water and plain, boring soap.

He was then subjected to a sniff test.

Jaskier: Did i get it all off?

Geralt,: *snuffling*

Jaskier: Do I pass?

"Hm." Geralt had grunted with a nod. "All i can smell is ball sweat."

*affronted bard noises*

[azriona]

Doctor Who compilation bookbinding project

Okay, continued the bookbinding this afternoon, and this time paid slightly more attention to the signature order, so now it's all sewed up in the right direction. The textblock isn't quite done--it still needs endpapers and headbands-- but that's going to have to wait because I don't have the endpapers I want.

Anyway, I thought I'd post progress pictures for those interested, and because I realized I haven't taken progress photos of any of the projects thus far. This is the third of my own fics that I've been binding. I'm not doing too much new with this one, but I still haven't figured out the cover so I might try something with that. Anyway, this compilation is of my Doctor Who fics (Pages and Left Behind are the main ones, and then an assortment of shorter fics).

(Confession: it has been so long since I read Left Behind, and I have been so deep in the MCU lately, that I read the opening to this story and my first thought is, "Tony Stark is in this here?!" 😂😂😂😂)

So the first part of fanbinding actually creating the pdf for printing. This probably takes up the most time, because I'm doing a shit-ton of trying to coax Word to do what I want it to do. Luckily, I learned how to do this when prepping Pen's books for printing, and I've gotten a lot better and faster at it over the years. I don't know that I'm any good at it, really--I see some layouts that are frankly amazing and inventive and creative and I wish I could think of those designs, but hey, I think I do all right. You can't see on the above page (it's too light) but there's the faint design of Gallifreyen behind the chapter title there. I also played a lot with using backgrounds on the main title pages:

Okay, those show up better. I'm trying to decide if I want to trim the pages so that you don't have that blank outline around the title page decoration. (Word won't let you print all the way to the edge of the page, which I guess is the drawback of home printing? Eh.) The advantage of trimming would be that I get that nice flat side to the textblock; right now it's that choppy sort of look. Which I don't mind, honestly, but at some point I gotta learn how to cut those pages nice and even.

The deets: printed on ivory letter-sized paper, folded in half. The entire file is a nice solid 300 pages or so.

Anyway, with the signatures printed, it was time to put it together. This time, I had an awl-guide and cradle that I had 3-D printed at the library based on a design from Thingiverse. CHECK THAT BABY OUT. Mine is white and gold (because I told the library I did not care what color they used). I have to say, I love it. Made cutting holes soooooo much easier and faster and perfect and painless. Support your local library, folks, they have all sorts of cool toys.

Sewing it together: I'm continuing to use a kettle-stitch, because it's easy and fast and previously I had trouble keeping the stitches even and tight. I think I finally figured out how to do both now, both a factor in the holes being consistent (thank you, awl guide & cradle) and just paying better attention to the tension in the thread. This is probably the thickest I could go without those strappy thing I see some of the thicker tomes using (I cannot remember the name and you do not want to know what I found when I typed "strappy things" in Google; it sure didn't pertain to bookbinding).

FEAST YOUR EYES ON THE GORGEOUS, PEOPLE.

So that's where we're leaving it; I have a pretty good idea what endpapers I want to use, I just have to get back to JoAnn's to get them. I have ideas about the cover, but I'm not sure how to make it happen, so I'll let that ferment and switch back to one of the other projects. More later.

[gentlebeardsbarngrill]

04/17/24 Daily OFMD Recap

== Nathan Foad ==

More pictures of Nathan in Love's Labours Lost!

== Kay Buchanan ==

Our friendly neighborhood OFMD Master Leather Worker has more pictures for us! This time, maybe Black Pete's bag? Anyone know off hand?

SRC: Kay Buchanan's IG

== Taika ==

So these pictures are adorable, but be warned of a potential jump scare if you watch the rest of the video-- thank you @ofmd-ann for the awesome stills, I did NOT want to put the full video on here xD See her post here.

(via Ritas tiktok)

== Lesley Fucking Jones ==

== Vico Ortiz ==

Sneaky shot of Vico from behind <3 Img Src: @enbybruje's IG

== Dominic Burgess ==

Technically this would be Cats & Crew but I'll allow it because Dominic is such a friggn adorable cat dad and he deserves so much love for that.

Src: Dominic's Twitter

== Watch Parties ==

= Flight of the Conchords =

Bit of an adjustment at least on the RhysDarbyFaction discord server for FotC watch party, we'll be watching 3 episodes a piece Thursday and Friday so as not to run into the next week. Continues tomorrow with episodes 5, 6, 7, of season 2 at 4pm PT / 7 pm ET / 11pm BST

#FlagOfTheConchords

#OurFlagMeansDeath

= Palm Royal Season 1 =

A new watch party hosted by @lcwebsxoxo on twitter is up and running! Thursday Episodes 3 and 4 will be playing at 1 pm PT / 4 pm ET / 9 pm BST

#PalmRoyale

#OurFlagMeansDeath

#SaveOFMD

== Fan Spotlight ==

= Cast Cards =

Tonight's cast card features the other fisherman (Pedro Lope) that Stede robbed on his first "raid". We're gonna have a whole set of cards soon I can feel it @melvisik, thank you for these!

= TealOranges & Garlic Soup Week 2024!! =

Prompts are up for this years TealOranges & Garlic Soup Prompt Week! The week will run June 23-29, 2024 with themes and prompts for each day! This prompt week celebrates all things Jim/Oluwande and Archie/Jim/Oluwande/Zheng!

Plain Text for Prompts

Additional Information & FAQ

This Years AO3

== Love Notes ==

Hey there lovelies-- I've had 3 hrs sleep today so the words on the screen are starting to run together. I'm still getting love notes from yesterdays request, and thank you so much, I promise i'm catching up to the messages, you all are the best crew someone could ask for. Thank you for spreading some joy in this crazy ass world.

Tonight I would like to send a reminder that we have not lost OFMD, as so many of said, we still have 2 wonderful seasons, and those boyfriends are currently boinking their way into oblivion in their inn, making their poor customers insane. But beyond that... had a discussion today with multiple dear friends / crewmates that made me feel a lot better about the whole thing too. I know it's months in the gravy basket now, but this is not the end for OFMD. Chaos Dad told us it was over, but in all honesty it still doesn't feel over. WBD is driving itself into the ground, Dad's been off at the WBD lot, it feels like things are moving in a better direction again. It may not be today, or tomorrow, or even the next few months, or a year or so, but I think we still have a chance to see the ending of our story.

And we've all said it before, but it bears repeating, even if it never happens, we get to make it happen. Stede and Ed live on in all our crazy ranges of work out there, that so many of you have been just CRANKING out lately, I've been astonished at how much new work I've seen from folks in the the fandom I know, and new folks I haven't met! It's so inspiring to see OFMD affect people so much that they felt they could put little pieces of themselves out into the world through art of all mediums.

I hope I'm making sense at this point.. if not, sorry about that! But know-- there's always hope. There's always S1 and S2, and the infinite universes we get to dream up from those two.

Rest Well lovelies. Img Src: @Chucklesandbleu on IG

== Daily Darby / Tonight's Taika ==

Tonight's theme - Bowties!

Gifs Courtesy of @fandomsmeantheworldtome and @sam-reid!

[blood-and-pizza]

Hey, everyone. I haven't been feeling great lately, not just due to personal issues, but due to the results of the recent U.S. election. I am a genderfluid trans person living in a southern state. While I'm not currently seeking gender-affirming care, I know my life is in just as much danger as any other queer person living in this country. I'm terrified. But I'm not going to stop being myself.

I know there's others in the fandom who are like me, living in the U.S. and unsure of what to do now. The answer is simple: SURVIVE. STAY ALIVE AT ALL COSTS. Do it to spite people like Trump and his supporters. Do it to spite all people who use fear and hatred to control the masses. If you give up now, you are letting the bad guys, those literal fascists, win.

I have been alive for almost 40 years, and I've had many experiences that made me want to give up life entirely. Do you all wanna know why I'm still here? Because if I give up now, after all the fighting I did to stay alive, it would be a huge waste. And the same applies to ALL of you, you hear me!? DON'T GIVE UP! NEVER GIVE UP!

Also: PLEASE do not be afraid to help others who are affected by Trump and Project 2025. That means queer people (INCLUDING trans people), people of color, and people with uteruses (cis women, trans men, and anyone else who can get pregnant). Do not be afraid to reach out and help others... IF YOU CAN. Do not be hard on yourself if you can't; it's understandable if things are too tough. Just remember we're all in this together and unity against hatred is more important than anything else right now.

DO NOT GIVE UP HOPE. NEVER GIVE UP HOPE. And remember: you are always welcome here on this blog. Yes, it's a FNAF blog, but it's also a safe space for queer folks like me. And if anyone's got a problem with that, YOU CAN SUCK MY NUTS!