#Someone write a fic. Or I will perhaps

[masked-puppetmaster]

do you think hunter ever felt guilty getting a new palisman. Like he has so clearly found so many ways to honor flapjack with the grave and the whole tattoo situation but like do you think he was worried about replacing flapjack when he (presumably) made waffles

[demaparbat-hp]

Zuko drank in the sight of her because some part of him knew he wouldn't get another chance to do so.

She was the most glorious being he had ever seen.

Mother Wolf guides us to the end of something in For the Spirits Chapter X: Following Your Form.

What will the Southern Seas bring? What depths has she pushed us into?

[shirajellyfish]

So many writers put so much work into their robot lore and how the robots work and where the components are and meanwhile I'm just like

High research writers with actual notes on how robots work: I both respect and fear you. And most of all love you.

[cannedbananabread]

skill issue honestly, he just needs my love and affection

[viperwhispered]

Rest

Guess what? I've got more Jamil x reader for y'all. You can also find this on ao3. No warnings, just 866 words of kinda fluffy(?) caretaking stuff with gender-neutral reader.

At this point, you know Jamil’s schedule almost as well as he does. So, when you have the chance, you head to Scarabia’s kitchen, hoping to spend some time with Jamil while he and the other students prepare dinner. 

However, when you enter, it takes you but a moment to notice Jamil’s uncharacteristic fumbling and the tired look in his eyes. The way Jamil’s chopping the vegetables has you worried about him cutting himself with that knife he’s usually so adept with, and it seems it’s only force of habit that’s keeping him on track.

You frown, and when your eyes meet Jamil’s, you can already see him put his guard up.

So he knows what state he is in, huh? And still, here he is.

It seems Jamil is reading your thoughts, all of him telling you drop it before any words are even said.

At least he still lets you lean in and give a quick kiss to his cheek in greeting.

“Hello love. Do you still have a lot on your agenda for today?” you ask, keeping your tone low for at least some semblance of privacy in the busy kitchen.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” is the response you get.

Of course.

It takes a little more pestering before Jamil actually answers your question. Your lips purse. That list is far too long to your liking.

You take a moment to think, juggling your own plans and to-do list against the urgency of the things Jamil mentioned.

“Will Kalim be eating from that?” you ask, pointing at the food Jamil is preparing.

“Yes.”

“Alright, I won’t be touching that one, then. I’ve gotta do a few things but I’ll be back when you’re done here.”

“Don’t,” Jamil says with a glare, clearly aware of what you’re thinking.

Yet even his disapproving look doesn’t have the usual weight behind it.

“Yes. I will,” you say firmly, even as your heart curls inwards with another bout of concern.

Really, when did he get so tired?

And how did you not notice it earlier?

You leave the kitchen before Jamil can protest further, hurrying through the dorm corridors to find Kalim.

Soon you have an enthusiastic – and concerned – supporter for your plans. You have Kalim point out a few reliable Scarabia students to help with a few of the most urgent matters Jamil mentioned – cleaning up the common areas, delivering some paperwork to Crowley, preparing some dorm-wide notices – while you see to Kalim getting his school supplies in order for the following day. You even recruit a couple of third years to help Kalim with his homework.

You’ll see to the rest tomorrow – after all, you do also have a boyfriend to look after.

Your conversation over dinner can hardly be called anything else than an argument – despite Kalim’s best attempts at acting as a moderating force between you two. It is very tempting to ask Kalim to tell Jamil to take the rest of the day off – it’s not like Jamil would be willing to openly disobey a direct order. Still, you really don’t need to remind Jamil of his position on top of everything else that you’re already doing more or less against his wishes.

Eventually, however, Jamil’s had a square meal, the most urgent things on his to-do list are being taken care of, and you’ve managed to drag him to his bed.

“I really wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard,” you murmur, your arms wrapped tightly around Jamil. You’re telling yourself you really do just want to cuddle, to offer some respite to Jamil. Still, there might also be a part of you worried that if you were to let go, he’d just jump up and get back to working himself to the bone.

Yet, for all his protestations, just the fact that you’ve gotten Jamil to lay down with you speaks volumes of his current exhaustion.

“I can’t just leave my duties, albi. You know this.”

“Making yourself too indispensable, is what you’re doing,” you protest.

Oh, you know it’s not so simple. Not with his background, not with all the expectations and assumptions.

But sometimes you really wish it would be.

Jamil merely scoffs in response to your words.

Still, it is undeniable that he is slowly beginning to relax in your arms, slowly bringing his head closer to yours. His eyes are starting to flutter, too.

“I will still need to help Kalim with his homework, at the very least.”

You wonder who he is trying to convince more, you or himself.

“Amin and Khalil are helping him. They’re basically top of their classes, aren’t they? I’m sure they’ve got it.”

Still, Jamil frowns.

You sigh. He really is not letting go, is he?

“Do you want me to go supervise?” you ask.

And leave you, unsaid yet hanging there right after your words.

“Don’t,” Jamil eventually says, the word barely more than a breath.

It seems he has accepted his fate.

You softly caress Jamil’s hair, listening to his softening breathing.

And when you wake up, wholly unaware of having been lulled to sleep in the first place, it’s to the lightest of touches from Jamil’s fingers.

Tagging @diodellet @twstgo @crystallizsch @jamilvapologist @jamilsimpno69 as per request If you'd like to be tagged for any future works, let me know!

[teddyeddiediaz]

AU where Eddie moves to LA after losing custody of Chris to Shannon (who lives in LA) and so Eddie is moody and kind of an asshole at his new fire station. Buck doesn't understand why Bobby hired him but Bobby seems to think that everyone needs to give him a chance. Ft Girl!Dad Buck whose daughter is deaf and meets Christopher Diaz a boy in her class who loves drawing just like her. When Eddie finds out he first tries to get close to Buck to see Chris at play dates, but then he ends up falling in love with him and the family they create. Shannon still dies, and Eddie gains custody of Chris after a battle with his parents.

[baddybaddyadardaddy]

Thinking about your response to the most recent eye-contact anon has me thinking… Adar would probably go a little insane in an environment where he wasn’t in a position to do anything or enact his usual behaviours of care/order.

Not sure if Mandos operates this way, but imagine:

Dinner? Made by someone else and served.

Dishes? Also taken care of.

Laundry? Don’t worry about it.

Some attendant tries to get Adar to sit down, put his feet up, get some cucumber slices on those eyes. Meanwhile he’s just internally screaming.

bahahahahaha yeah i think Adar would be COMPLETELY unnerved by... really anything that remotely feels like someone taking care of him in any way.

i feel like he's spent his ENTIRE existence just taking care of his kids, putting them first, providing for them. he's self-sufficient AF.

i could actually see (assuming Adar was allowed to leave Mandos) the Valar like, court-mandating him to spend time on Estë's little island to heal... and yeah, i feel like her maiar would take care of EVERYTHING and Adar would just be... bouncing off the walls.

And Estë NEVER loses her temper with anyone, but finally she just has to grab this poor uruk, shake him by the collar and tell him to PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ERU, SIT DOWN AND DO A MUD MASK OR SOMETHING BECAUSE IT IS RELAXATION TIME ON THE ISLAND AND HE'S RUINING THE VIBE.

[greenerteacups]

hi GT!

Lionheart had me the moment you kicked it off with “it’s a nice day to start again.” Might i ask why you chose that particular line?

And, if you havent already answered to this emoji:

❄️

P.s: you have my eternal gratitude for creating the most brilliant piece of writing i’ll ever read. I shout about it from the rooftops, share it on my socials, requested my spouse to read it so we may discuss it together (in lieu of a present for my 30th birthday), et cetera.

I see from your URL you are a fellow lad of taste.

There's a couple things going on in the epigraph for Book 1. On one level, it's a lyric from the first muggle song I picture Draco listening to on his walkman at the end of the book, so there's a cute full-circle thing there. The second layer is the theme of change and redemption, which, in Lionheart, doesn't so much come from major moments or self-sacrifice, but from the slow, grueling, everyday work of living, and living better. It's a nice day to start again because every day is. You always have the opportunity to start making better choices, no matter what lies behind you. That's the thesis of any Draco redemption arc, right? You have to imagine that he could have chosen to be better.

And then thirdly, there's the audacity of doing a full Hogwarts canon rewrite, a good 30 years after the original books came out, millions upon millions of words of fanfic later, and basically asking everyone to read the same story they did the first time around, only different. So it's a kind of winking entreaty. It's saying to readers, many of whom are understandably wary of doing it over, zeroing out the characters to starting positions, and starting from the beginning with 11-year-olds all over again. It's going: "hey. That was fun, right? Why not do it again?"

[quatregats]

I did kind of enjoy the first chapter of Parkinson's Hornblower "biography" because it offered some things that I had either been wondering about or which I thought were delightful little headcanons, but I have to say that since then it has just been making me hate Hornblower an unbelievable amount and/or occasionally go he would not fucking say that

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Don't Go Blindly Into the Dark

Summary:

To hide that he can't read, Jan Van Eck has been forcing his son to pretend he's blind since he was eight years old. Wylan is now attending Ketterdam University, and meeting Jesper Fahey may very well be about to change his life. But is he safe to tell Jesper the truth? And what will Jesper say if he does?

Jesper is struggling to weigh up his life in the Barrel and his life at the University of Ketterdam, and there's a good chance that his growing debt is about to make the decision for him. He hasn't attended class consecutively for months, but maybe that will change when his newest project includes partnering up with Wylan Van Eck. But can he really leave the Barrel behind him? And how long can he keep up the pretence of who he thinks Wylan wants him to be?

Tags: @justalunaticfangirl @lunarthecorvus

If anyone else would like to be tagged let me know :)

Content warnings for this chapter: ptsd, wounds, implied violence, implied child abuse

AO3 link

Chapter 22 - Wylan

Jesper was right - talking really was his superpower. If Wylan hadn’t eventually said:

“Jes, don’t you need to go to work?” he wasn’t sure he ever would’ve stopped. 

He had encouraged Wylan to drink the tea he’d brought up for him, pressing the warm mug into his hands and guiding Wylan’s fingers to the handle as he chattered, but for the most part Wylan just sat feeling the heat of it between his palms. There were a couple of bread rolls lying on a plate across the room as well, but Jesper hadn’t mentioned them and Wylan wasn’t hungry. Jesper had paused briefly in the middle of a story Wylan wasn’t really listening to when he realised how much time must have passed, because the tea was cold. He was grateful for the sound of Jesper’s voice to occupy his mind even if he wasn’t really listening to what he said, it felt like an anchor keeping him in this room, in this moment. He almost regretted stopping him, but he didn’t want to be the reason Jesper was late or missed work. 

“Oh, shoot, yeah,” Jesper laughed, “I can stay, if you want-”

“I’ll be okay,” Wylan breathed, trying to smile, “Really. Thank you, so much,”

“Of course, love,” Jesper stood up and leaned a little closer; Wylan felt himself tense, “You want a new drink?”

He was looking at the half empty mug, its steam long dissipated and its colour fading from the most welcoming sight. 

“Oh- it’s alright, thanks,” Wylan let Jesper take the cold tea off him and set it back on the table, “Are you sure it’s okay for me to stay here?”

He didn’t know why he was risking asking - he didn’t have anywhere else to go. But he didn’t want to make Jesper feel like he had to take care of him. 

“Of course,” he said, again, “Long as you want. I’ll run and find some dry clothes and then I’ll go,”

Wylan nodded, but even so when Jesper returned and knocked on the door again he felt himself flinch. His breathing grew sharp and one of his hands fumbled to his neck, as if he was still trying to pull Prior’s hands away from his throat. He knew it was just Jesper, he knew that, he knew that. But apparently that wasn’t going to stop his brain from going into overdrive. 

“Wylan?”

He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t breathe.

“Wylan, are you okay?”

“Yeah - sorry,” his voice didn’t sound right, “I - sorry -”

“Don’t apologise. I can leave these here for you and you can just get them when you want, or-”

“Uh, no, it’s okay,” Wylan managed, flexing his fingers in and out of his fists, “You can come in. Sorry,”

“Do you know what don’t apologise means?” asked Jesper as the door opened, smiling at Wylan, “Here,”

He tossed a shirt and a pair of trousers, which landed sort of haphazardly on Wylan’s lap as he tried to catch them. He dropped the shirt.

“Sorry, probably should’ve thought that through,” Jesper picked it up and pressed it into Wylan’s hand, “But I think those should fit okay - and there’s a railing on the wall opposite the bed, you can hang your stuff on there to dry,”

Wylan nodded.

“Thank you,” 

“Yeah of course - okay, I’ve gotta run or I’m gonna be late, are you sure you’re okay on your own?”

Wylan just nodded again. 

He had been glad to sit with Jesper for a while, listening to whatever he’d been talking about without really taking it in, but he was glad to have a little time for himself as well.

Jesper’s room could only be described as chaotic. The bed was unmade, the pillows in disarray and the duvet falling half onto the floor where the corner drooped into a pile of discarded clothes. The table where Wylan’s cold tea and the little bread rolls were sitting in wait was also decorated by several other used cups and plates, some stacked on top of each other and some shoved to one side to make space for the ones Jesper had brought up earlier. It wasn’t a big space but there was a window that peered onto the street below and, if Wylan’s sight hadn’t been blurry, would have given him the vaguest hint of the canal behind the next few buildings, with frayed curtains that had clearly faded from whatever colour they were once supposed to be. Other than the faded curtains Jesper’s room was actually very colourful, like it was impossible for him to own more than one item in the same shade. Wylan turned back from the window, fingers brushing the sill and spilling dust onto the floor. He brushed his hand down the leg of the trousers he’d just changed into, trying to get the remnants off himself, and then picked up his dripping clothes and pushed one of Jesper’s waistcoats to the end of the little railing so there was space to hang them over it. 

The room was definitely chaotic, but that made it feel real. Lived in. Wylan’s room at home could have belonged to pretty much anyone if you didn’t know it was his, but this place looked like it actually belonged to someone. Or like someone actually belonged here. 

It took him a few minutes to convince himself to open his satchel; he wasn’t sure why it felt like he couldn’t do it, but if he left it where it was the water would end up ruining Jesper’s already slightly dodgy floorboards and all of Wylan’s things would be ruined. He wondered what his father had done with the trunks that were supposedly being sent after him, and had to suddenly pinch his nose and swallow hard to try and keep from throwing up. 

Everything in his satchel was soaked through. He had to wring his favourite jumper out over the window ledge before he put it onto the railing with everything else because the wool was holding so much water, and he was pretty sure the shape was all warped and ruined but he was trying to convince himself away from thinking about it. It was an incredibly stupid thing to be concerned about right now, but it was his favourite jumper and it was probably ruined and it was making him want to cry. And what about everything in his trunk? His clothes, his shoes, everything - even the sheet music he’d managed to keep hidden in his wardrobe for so long… all of it must be gone. He’d taken his flute out of his jacket pocket when he hung it over the railing, but now he didn’t really have anywhere else to put it except back into his sopping wet bag and that didn’t seem very practical. He stood in the centre of Jesper’s room, holding his almost definitely ruined flute, staring at his almost definitely ruined jumper, his hair still wet and the goosebumps on his arms still shivering beneath the too-long sleeves of his borrowed shirt. He hoped it was borrowed, anyway, though walking through this building had set him on a pretty certain path that this was probably stolen. 

There were still loud noises chattering through from downstairs and the rooms either side of this one; conversations that were either mostly unintelligible or didn’t make sense to Wylan. There was a couple arguing in the room next door, sounding like they were on the verge of throwing things at each other, and a couple in the room above who were definitely doing something else. Wylan stared at the ceiling for a moment - it’s half six in the morning! - and then shook himself back to his senses. It was like he’d fallen into another world, some kind of mad mirror dimension of the city that he’d thought he knew, and he had no idea how to function here. He wished he’d drunk all of his tea; he wasn’t going to dare venturing anywhere else to get a new one. He settled for the water flask that he’d set on the floor when he took it out of his satchel, running his fingers along the newly acquired dents in the metal. 

Jesper was only gone for about two hours. Wylan paced around the room, finished all the water in his flask, convinced himself to rip an edge of one of the bread rolls. He caught himself in the smudgy mirror and realised there were bruises growing on his throat. He pulled his collar up, as if that would be enough to hide them, and hoped that Jesper wouldn’t notice.

The sounds of the house were relentless and every single one of them was someone coming to find him, Prior or Miggson ready to finish the job. By the time Jesper returned, Wylan was sitting between the wall and the foot of the bed, with knees pulled to his chest, his flute clutched loosely between his fingers. The wood was warped. It was useless. 

“Wylan?”

Wylan jumped. He hadn’t heard Jesper come in. 

“Oh, is this the famous flute?” Jesper grinned as he sat down in front of Wylan, apparently not caring to question what he was doing sitting on the floor, “Do I get to hear you play?”

“It’s ruined,” Wylan mumbled, without looking up, still running his fingers over the misshapen wood.

He was an idiot. If he had just left his flute in his bag, tucked it safely into its case, it probably wouldn’t have been quite so far beyond repair. It might have survived. But he’d wanted it in his jacket, he’d wanted to be able to feel it and know that it was there for what? He couldn’t even describe the nervousness he knew he would’ve felt in its absence. He had a vague memory of going travelling somewhere once, he didn’t remember where and he’d only been a small child, and checking his bag every few minutes as though all of his belongings might have vanished the moment he looked away. That one stuck out, other than all the other travels he had once been happily - even excitedly - welcomed on by his father, because by whatever age he was then he’d had his first flute and it was sitting in that bag, on the verge of disappearing every few seconds if he didn’t keep an eye on it. Keep it safe and close and in a strange way almost secret. So what? For some stupid sentimentality or foolish, entirely impractical and irrational fear, Wylan had destroyed his flute. He may as well have clung to it so tightly that his fingers snapped it in half, for all the infuriating irony was not lost on him, and he wanted to scream his frustration and his loss. But he just carried on sitting there, running his fingers over the ruined flute, grieving for something that had never been alive in the first place.

“Oh, Wy, I’m so sorry…” Jesper’s voice felt distant.

Wylan just shrugged.

“I shouldn’t care this much,” he whispered, “Not… not about this, of all things this is what’s…”

He couldn’t finish the thought; he just shook his head. The pain in his chest had only slightly released since crawling out of the canal hours ago, and he felt nerves rising as he wondered if Jesper could see his bruises. He had to hold himself back from fidgeting with his collar. 

“Wylan, you’re allowed to be upset about-”

“Don’t,” he whispered.

He couldn’t talk about it. He shouldn’t have mentioned it. Jesper shuffled, but he didn’t say anything. Wylan felt his hand wanting to drift to his shirt collar again and tightened his grip on his flute. Trying harder to hide them was only going to draw Jesper’s attention to the bruises.

“That wasn’t a long shift,” he said, eventually, when the quiet - not silence, apparently there was never silence here - got too much.

“I just sorted out a deal with them,” said Jesper, smiling, “So you weren’t stuck here alone for ages,”

Wylan nodded. 

“Where do you work?”

There was brief pause, before Jesper ventured:

“At a bar,”

He didn;t sound entirely convinced about his own statement, but who the hell was Wylan to call someone out for lying?

“I, erm…” Jesper hesitated, then began again talking so quickly it was like his own words - or perhaps his thoughts - were overlapping each other, “I know someone, who I think you should talk to. I mean - well, he wants to meet you so if you want to - tomorrow, you don’t have to like now, I mean…”

He trailed off for a moment, then said more succinctly:

“You can stay here tonight and I’ll get out of your way, but if you’re feeling okay tomorrow then there’s this guy I work with, Kaz - he’s my boss. He’d like to talk to you,”

Wylan leaned back, feeling tension run through his shoulders.

“Why?”

“He’s hoping you’ll make a deal with him - you don’t have to, okay, but if you just have a conversation with him he might be able to help you out,”

“Help me out?” asked Wylan, raising an eyebrow, “By making a deal? You sure you’re not talking about the devil, here?”

Jesper laughed.

“You might be more accurate in that than you want to be, Wylan,” he laughed again, “But he probably can help you, and you can probably help him. Look, if you just talk to him - and I can be there too, if you want me to - you don’t have to agree to anything. But he might be able to help you make some money, maybe even… I dunno, but he could get you a job, I’m sure,”

The actual practicality of everything hadn’t quite dawned on Wylan until now. He was alone - or almost alone, anyway - in the Barrel, his father had tried to have him killed and may very well believe him drowned, he had no money but a couple of very wet kruge notes, and no skills or methods of income whatsoever. He would have to find a job somewhere; would have to do something to survive. And Jesper had said he could stay here, but he could hardly do that forever could he? He needed money, he needed somewhere to live, he… he needed to at least survive this part, if he would have any hope of ever figuring out the next. 

“Okay,” he murmured, eventually, “I’ll talk to him,”

[valyrfia]

Are the words in Max's wrist "Il predestinato"? 'Cause I was a bit confused at the end

Hi anon! I appreciate my Lestappen soulmate fic leaves a LOT unsaid so let do a quick run down.

So in this AU words on people's wrist don't necessarily lead them to people, but rather sort of give a person some sort of clue as to their life path, and it could be good or bad or just neutral. So Max's parents both have matching marks of '33' which they believe refer to each other but in reality refer to Max (a self-fulfilling prophecy, since Max later chooses his racing number based on his parents' mark). Daniel has a McLaren race car (which will be explored in detail in Part II trust me), and all that really means is that a McLaren race car represents something about his life path. Charles has the number 16, which he later chooses as his racing number because it's on his wrist. But soulmarks are deliberately vague and confusing in this universe and could refer to multiple aspects of a person's life.

The words on Max's wrist are "for rarely man escapes his destiny" (the fic title). From a VERY young age Max has been told by people around him that his mark refers to his giftedness at racing, so by the time he's an adult he's pretty much certain that all it means is that he's destined to be world champion. However, yes, Charles then being referred to as Il Predestinato by the press sends Max into a panicked spiral, half because Max is jealous and terrified that Charles will 'steal' his destiny from him (especially after the back-to-back wins in Spa and Monza in 2019) but also because well, if Charles is the embodiment of destiny, what does that imply for Max and the words on his wrist telling him for rarely man escapes his destiny"?

There is a Part II coming and I hope to make some of these ideas a little clearer there! But thank you for reading nonetheless, it means so much to me <3

[essayofthoughts]

There's this thing, sometimes, when reading fic - not shitfic, because I do read that and I know what to expect from it, but fic with actual thought and nuance, which cares about exploring trauma and fucked up emotional consequences, evenwhen when they're ugly and uncomfortable and awful -, when you realise that while the fic is willing to have the protagonists be angry but get over it with some characters, they just refuse to with others. And it can make sense to a degree - there's always one character that gets under another's skin, and there's gonna be some disagreements that just, due to individual perspectives, are that much harder to overcome. Even though having them work through it - having a character admit how and when and where they fucked up, and how severely, and the degree to which they recognise this, the internal complex, contradictory fuckery - can be fun! Can be nuanced and messy and delicious.

Then you see the fic says "[X Character] Bashing" and you realise you're never gonna get that. That those crunchy, messy, complex, fun scenes in your head? Will never leave it, because the author has decided that while they'll put in all this engaging messy nuance for (so far) literally every other character... for this single one, a flat one-sided view of a character is all they can be arsed to write.

I dunno, yeah, it's fic and you can write what you like, but bashing has always felt incredibly, astoundingly lazy to me.

[vertigo-tango]

hey heyyyyyyyy before i ask anything i just wanna say thank you for posting your sketches and paintings, especially all the tam ones and the latest igor and karter sketch, the one with a tag that says "art is less of a skill and more about coming to terms with yourself" (paraphrased i think), that helped me wrangle the root cause of my invisible mental breakdown at a party yesterday. i realised my art style/drawing process wasnt what i wanted but not just because its not time flexible and oddly stiff, but because it isnt what i was feeling, what i was thinking, it was ideas in my brain thinned and skinned into a pleasure for others to look at rather than for myself to draw (plus it took me 20 minutes to draw a pose and the back before i restarted for the 4th time)

taking it slow was the fisher having food on a hook that me, starving, was swimming towards. sure, im proud of my end results, but what does that mean about me, did the time i put in encapsulate what i had in my mind, and most often its a yes, but it feels like it was someone elses version of the same idea.

to be childishly honest, your artstyle is the one i exactly wanted and expected when i was younger so seeing you here was kind of a wake up call as well as what the fuck am i doing in a weird sense. ill be honest idk what my new artstyle will be directed to, experimenting leads to it having lots of dna of the previous one but that is to be expected, so thank you again man(gn), keep up what youre doing.

anyways massive apologies for the weirdly sentimental rant from a guy youve probably never interacted with, i wanna hear more about both tamalex (more specifically tam but we can push aside my bias for a second) and the riot brothers, i love reading your headcanons teehee:)))))

hi hi, I'm going to be honest, seeing this ask made my day astronomically better

I'm glad I'm not alone in this cause man does it suck. but I'm happy that you found the direction you want to go. keep to it, and best of luck

[also don't apologise for reaching out. being able to talk to people with the same interest is genuinely the only reason I post on here, so never hesitate to reach out to me, I would love to talk]

[rotworld]

chapter 2 of the luxuria triplicate side story is up! this one is suggestive but not explicit, has some vague mentions of child abuse/neglect.

[kallistersbullshit]

this is what happens to dca fic writers

[cookinguptales]

I'm dying, I had another fandom breakup several years ago where I also poured my frustration into a deeply pornographic fic.

The main differences are:

different fandom, obviously

this was actually one of the last fics I ever wrote for that fandom, it really was a kiss off. the only fics I posted after it were just me finishing up some prior obligations.

I actually wrote it and posted it, as opposed to the pornographic vent fic I was writing for wwdits that I set aside for now.

I APPARENTLY POSTED IT TO TUMBLR FIRST?

I know this because someone just reblogged it (and said some really kind things, thank you ;;) and I had completely forgotten that I'd been so deep in my fit of pique that I was like "well this is vent fic that I wrote to cope with my frustration towards canon, not REAL fic, so I should post it to tumblr, not AO3."

At first I was just laughing over the sheer timing of it all, someone digging up this ancient post with like 25 notes from many years ago the exact same week that I'm having angst over the fandom I replaced the old one with, but then I actually clicked on the post in my notifications and was like.

wait.

did I.... post a sixteen-thousand-word fic to tumblr?

I DID. AND PEOPLE READ IT??? like that's the fucking wild part, that people were willing to sit down and read a fucking sixteen-thousand-word fic under a read more on tumblr. people were so strong back then.

(thankfully, I was convinced to crosspost it to AO3 a few days later, which actually made the fucker readable.)

the sheer ridiculousness of my tantrum (and my weird internal classification for what fic "deserved" to be on AO3 vs. what should just quietly be forgotten on tumblr) has me laughing. which I think was actually kind of needed, haha. we all need to laugh at our own fandom angst sometimes.

if I do end up finishing and posting the wwdits ventfic, I promise I'll actually post it on AO3. lmao