#do I tag this with the fandom? fuck it sure

[midnightmisty]

too sweet - chapter 1

masterlist | ao3

!no outbreak joel x reader Summary:

“Joel—are you su—” “Let’s go.” Ten minutes ago, you were sitting in a freezing police station with no phone, no money, and a record waiting to happen. Then Joel Miller—your daddy's ex best friend—walked in, spoke six words to the cop, and took you home like you already belonged to him. Now you’re in his house. Wearing his shirts. Sleeping in his spare room. He buys you a brand new phone, stocks the fridge with things he knows you like, leaves cash on the counter like it’s nothing.

In which Joel Miller ends up being your sugar daddy who absolutely ruins you.

author's note: hi, this is my first time publishing fanfiction to tumblr. (please tell me if i'm not doing something right.) i've only been an ao3 author(bridgerton/stranger things). so here is sugar daddy joel. now, it's not full on. it's not he's buyin' her expensive stuff — think practical sugar daddy? i'd like to thank my bff karina for encouraging me to try another fandom out.

tags: content warning!! blowjob, male orgasm, dbf!joel, joel miller x f!reader, lots of smut, slowburn on romance, dom joel, alternative universe - no outbreak, !light sugar daddy, sugar daddy/sugar baby, joel is bad at feelings, age gap, joel is 50s x reader is 26-27.

word count: 4.2k status: ongoing.

chapter 1: i'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to somethin'

I think I'll take my whiskey neat My coffee black and my bed at three you're too sweet for me

The police station ain’t exactly the best place to be on a Thursday night. 

It’s cold. The bright lights are flickerin’ on and off giving you a headache that rings in your skull. You sit there, arms crossed, eyes on the dirty tile like it might somehow make the time pass a little faster. 

How the hell did you end up here?

Well, that’s easy. Your dad. 

Fraud. Money Laundering. Stolen Cars. 

Stealing cars? Yeah. That included the one you were driving home. 

Figures. 

The lobby’s dead. Cold air blowing in from the doors, buzzing lights, and the smell of someone’s dinner filled the air. Nobody wants to sit at a police station unless they have to. Fuck, you just wanna go home. 

To make matters fuckin’ worse, you lost your phone. 

You had the cop call Tommy—your dad’s friend, well sort of. The only one who might answer and not make a huge scene out of all of this. 

That was over an hour ago. 

Were you going to be stuck here forever?

The officer walks over, bored expression and a small note pad in his hand. “Tommy answered,” he says. “Said his brother’s on his way.” 

He looks down at the paper in his notebook. “Joel, I think his name was.” 

Fuck. Joel.

Joel was your dad’s best friend. Well…before all this.

Told him not to get involved in all that messy shit. Warned him somethin’ bad was going to happen. Said it to him straight, like he always did. But your dad…he didn’t listen. He never really did.

You grew up around Joel around. He was there–almost every barbecue, every holiday. Always showing up with a six pack and that quiet look that always said so much more than your dad’s drunk yelling ever did. After your mom left, he stuck around. Checked in every once in a while. Fixed your car when your dad was too drunk to. Made sure your dad didn’t drink himself stupid. You’d watch his daughter, Sarah, she was younger, always tagging along like a little shadow. 

He was always around. 

That’s what made this worse. 

You sigh and stare down at the checkered tile, the kind that somehow looks dirty even when it’s scrubbed clean. You’re just waiting now. For this mess to be over. For a way out. 

The front door creaks open. Heavy boots echo across the lobby floor.  You don’t even have to really look up to know who it is. 

It’s Joel. Rugged. Grey streaks in his hair. Worn denim and that damn tan jacket he’d had for years. Jeans. Boots scruffed. That look on his face—the one he wore when someone around him did something stupid. Like this wasn’t the first time he had to clean up someone else’s mess. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, casually, like you’re not sitting in a fucking police station. 

“Hey,” you mutter back, quietly. 

“Y’they lettin’ you go?” Joel asks. 

You shrug. Been there for hours at this point and honestly, no one’s told you shit. 

“They won’t say much,” you say. “Talkin’ to me like I’m five.” 

Joel doesn’t say much. Just walks over to the cops, starts talking in that low voice that somehow makes people listen. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him. Between work and part-time classes, life just… got in the way. 

But Joel?

He hasn’t really changed. He’s always had this way of making you feel—calm. Safe, maybe. Even now. Joel handles shit the way men are supposed too. Not like other people who’d just talk too loud and make things a thousand times worse. 

You find yourself staring. Too long. Watching him as he talks to the cop, his voice low, hands in his pockets like he doesn’t have a worry in the world. Like he’s got everything handled. 

Joel walks back over, his expression unreadable. 

“Get your stuff,” he says. 

“–Joel—are you su–” 

“Let’s go.” 

You grab your backpack, sling it over your shoulder, and follow him out. 

He’s already at the truck, passenger door open, just waiting. It’s newer, bigger, and cleaner. You can smell the leather and sawdust as you climb in. 

Your dad had mentioned the construction business was doing well. Said Joel had a crew now. Jobs lined up for months. You’d seen it too; last year at the neighborhood barbecue, when he showed up in a clean shirt and boots that didn’t look like he’d been wearing them for a decade. 

He shuts the door and doesn’t look at you. Just rounds the truck, climbs in, and starts the engine. He doesn’t say a word as he drives. Neither do you. 

Feels like Joel don’t even know what to say. Truth is, you don’t either. He just picked you up from a goddamn police station. You were so fucking close to being tangled up in your dad’s mess. 

“Where ya stayin’?” he asks finally. “Dorm?” 

You shake your head. “No…I–uh.” 

School wasn’t something you could afford anymore. Had to drop to part-time. Scrape by. Make payments late and hope the university didn’t send you notices. Your dad was paying for it. 

Until he wasn’t. 

“I’m crashin’ at a friends,” you mutter. “Just ‘til I find somewhere.” 

“Your dad said you were livin’ in the dorms,” Joel says. “Or was he payin’ for that?” 

“He was.” 

Joel just nods. Doesn’t say nothin’ else for a while. His eyes fixated on the road. 

“You’re comin’ home with me,” he says. 

“Joel…” you sigh. “It’s fine. I’m good, really, I promi–”

“You’re stayin’,” he says, sharper now. “Got the space. You don’t gotta figure this shit out on ya own.” 

You nod, slow. “Ain’t forever,” he says, looking over. “Just ‘til ya get settled.” 

And you can’t help but wonder— Is he just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re his friend's kid? His only kid. “Ya eaten anythin’?” Joel asks. 

You shake your head. “No.”

Before you know it, Joel’s pulling into your favorite fast food place. Doesn’t ask. Just knows. 

Maybe–just maybe–this won’t be so bad.

Stayin’ with your dad’s best friend? Can’t be the end of the world.

Right?

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You wake up to the smell of bacon. Don’t know what time it is. Don’t even remember falling asleep, really. First night in a new place–well, not new. Just unfamiliar. Same floors, same creaky hall, different energy. 

You slept in a baggy T-shirt Joel gave you last night. Soft, worn with a hole in the bottom of it, it smelled like fabric softener. You stretch, muscles feeling stiff, hair a fuckin’ mess, then slip out of bed. The house is quiet as you wander downstairs, your feet brushing against the cold hardwood floors. The clock in the living room blinks:12:30. 

Fuck. 

You step into the kitchen, Joel’s at the stove, back to you, flipping something in a pan. He looks over his shoulder, shakes his head at you. 

“It’s past noon,” he says. “Whole damn mornin’ gone, sunshine.” 

“I don’t ‘member what time I fell asleep,” you mumble through a yawn. “Hard to sleep.” 

Joel doesn’t say anything. Just keeps working at the stove, like he hears you, like he understands what you mean. You sit down at the table. The chair creaks loudly under you. It’s strange being here. Still not yours.  But it’s quiet. Feels like something solid after years of nothing but mess. 

It was quiet for a while. Just the sound of the pan and the clock on the wall ticking. Then he moves, walks over, grabs something from his bag. A small box. Black Bow. 

He sets it down in front of you. 

“Ain’t like not bein’ able to reach you,” he says, firmly. “Use it. Set it up how you want.” 

You look down. It’s a phone, a brand new one. You’re speechless. You’re not even sure what to say to him. Joel doesn’t look at you. “Didn’t ask what color,” he mutters. “Don’t bitch.” 

“Joel–you—” you start. 

He cuts you a look, a look that was sharp. You know better than to argue with him. 

“Thank you,” you say, quietly. 

He sets a plate of breakfast down in front of you, still hot. He writes something quickly on a different piece of paper, then he grabs a scrap of paper and a pen from the counter. 

“I’ll grab your stuff later,” he says. “Write the address.” 

That’s it. No offer for you to go with. No questions. You just do it. 

Used to bite people’s heads off who told you what to do. Your parents, they constantly told you what to do. Exhausted you with it.  But with Joel? You don’t. You just listen. 

“You sure you don’t want me to come?” You ask, quietly. 

“Quicker if I do it myself,” he mutters. 

You write the address. Slide it over and he grabs the paper, grabs his work bag. Doesn’t say nothin’ else. Just leaves. 

Now you’re alone. In Joel’s house. 

You look down at the box, phone still laying neatly inside.

He bought you a phone. Just like that. No big talk about it, no strings attached. You’re sleepin’ in his spare room. Eating his food. Staying here “until you figure shit out.” 

And he’s not asking for a damn thing. Why does that feel so fuckin’ strange?

That he’d just do this. No questions. No rules. Just–here. 

You finish up your breakfast, scrape the plate, head to the sink.  There is a note. 

Home late. 

Order Pizza. 

–Joel. 

Twenty dollars sitting on top of it. That’s it.

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It’s been almost two weeks at Joel’s. 

Feels longer. Feels like nothing. He’s barely home. Out before you wake up, back late. 

You get rides to work. Keep your head down mostly. Classes are on break ‘til spring, not that you’ve paid your tuition bill at all. You’re not even sure if you can. 

Joel doesn’t say much. But he does things. 

Keeps the fridge stocked. Leaves a clean towel on the counter for you to shower. Bought you face wash last week–just left it by the sink. No note. No comment. Just there. 

You never asked for any of it. You keep wondering what he gets out of this. 

It’s not like you’re doing anything. Not helping. Not giving him a reason to keep getting you things. You just exist in this house. Taking up space. Most likely annoying him.  You’ve started thinkin’ maybe you should cook dinner.

Something simple. Just…something. Feels like the least you could do. Joel’s never been picky. Not that you know. But cooking feels like a way to give a little back.  It’s been quiet though. He works all the time. But not the bad kind. 

The kind that makes you feel safe, but drives you mad. Still, you’ve found yourself lying awake more than once, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he’s doing just down the hall. If you knocked on the door; if you asked to just sit with him. Would he let you?

You don’t. 

There’s a line. 

Should you cross it? No. Yes.  No. 

Today, you got home later than usual. Picked up a shift at the restaurant  for a friend. Didn’t mind it–kept yourself busy to keep out of your head. You take a quick shower when you get in. Let the water rinse the entire day off your skin. Let yourself feel clean again. 

You head downstairs, barefoot. Hair still damp, dripping down your back. Thin tank top. Shorts. Should be fuckin’ freezin’, it’s winter. But Joel kept the house warm for you. 

You round the corner and see him. 

Feet kicked up on the coffee table. One hand wrapped around a half-empty beer. TV playing some old black-and-white western, the kind he’s probably seen a hundred times. He doesn’t look away from the screen. 

Just says–

“C’mere.” 

You do. No hesitation. 

You walk over, eyes landing on the screen. “What’s on?” 

Joel doesn’t look over at you.

“Nothin’ good,” he mutters. 

You sit beside him. Close, but not too close. His arm draped around the back of the couch. Casual. Calm. But it’s there. 

He smells like cedar soap. The kind you saw in the shower earlier. And underneath that–sawdust and a little bit of sweat after a long day. 

After a while, he speaks. “Work was a bitch.” 

You look over at him. His head leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. Then his hand drags down his face, slowly. He looked tired, completely worn out. 

“Delivery truck didn’t show,” Joel mutters. “Big job. Had me on the damn phone all day with some fuckin’ kid who didn’t know shit.” 

He shakes his head and takes a slow slip of his beer. 

“Bein’ in charge just means cleanin’ up everybody else’s fuckups.” 

It’s the first time he’s ever opened up and said anything about work. Or when you think about it, his day. 

You reach out to him, slowly. Hand resting on his arm–just above the elbow, your touch so light and careful. Your thumb moves softly over the fabric of his shirt. You’re nervous. You shouldn’t be. 

But you are. 

Your fingers keep fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. 

You look up at him. “You do a lot,” you say. “You…deserve to relax.” 

He tenses, shoulders shift, like he’s a little caught off guard. You freeze–should you stop? But…he isn’t pulling away. Doesn’t move at all. So, you leave your hand there. Fingers dancing along his arm. You’re not trying to push, just trying to be there. A quiet way of showing that you care. 

He continues to watch the movie, keeping his eyes on it like nothing’s changed. You feel the change in him, the tension, the stillness. Like he’s holding his breath and doesn’t even realize it. 

The movie keeps playing, slow, pointless background now. You’re used to the quiet now, used to him. Joel’s never been a man who needed to fill the space with words.  You don’t even realize how much time’s passed. Not ‘til Joel shifts. Subtle, just barely. Then his hand finds your knee. He still doesn’t say anything, just leaves it there.

A minute later, it moves. Slow. Steady. 

Fingers drifting up, stopping just shy of the hem of your shorts. He squeezes your thigh lightly. Then his fingers slip higher, pushing your shorts up a little, settling on the bareskin. Like it’s nothing, like he’s just mindlessly doing it. 

Your breathin’ practically stops. He just keeps watching tv, and doesn't flinch. Doesn't look over at you. Maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe, he did. He just keeps watching the screen like nothing’s changed. 

But…something has changed. 

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Joel’s been on your mind for weeks. 

Won’t leave your head. Not when you’re awake, not when you’re dreaming. You know it’s wrong–thinking about him like that. Wanting him so fuckin’ bad it keeps you awake. 

Imagining what it would feel like for your lips to be on his, him on top of you. Imagining what it would be like to knock on his door in the middle of the night. But you don’t. You stop yourself…every time. 

After that night on the couch, movies became your routine. Evenings where he wasn’t workin’ late, you’d sit together on the couch, watching whatever you’d bicker about puttin’ on.

Somehow it was just…easy. 

Money left on the counter without a word. A new pair of headphones when you complained that yours stopped workin’. Always buyin’ your favorite snacks. One afternoon, last thursday, he dropped you off at the mall–handed you his credit card. 

Said, “Get what you want.” 

Still, somehow, didn’t ask for anything back. 

But no matter what, you settled nicely into this routine. Nights with Joel. He’d sit beside you on the couch, he’d rub your leg with that hand of his, like he didn’t even realize he was doin’ it. You’d lay against him sometimes, feel his chest through that old flannel, watchin’ whatever movie he picked–usually some western, sometimes an action flick that had low ratings. 

One night, you talked him into Friday the 13th. 

He just grumbled about it being total nonsense. 

But he still watched it all the way through. 

You wanted to cross that line, needed to. Every night, it got so much harder not to. But you held back. 

Until now…

You woke up late. House was quiet already. Joel was gone… at work. 

But when you walk into the kitchen, there’s a box on the counter. Wrapped, a bow on top of it. Joel’s thing he did with his gifts for you. 

You recognize it before you even open it—the necklace. The one your mom gave you. The one that snapped last week when it got caught on your sweater. He fixed it. Didn’t say a word. Just left a little note folded under the ribbon. 

For you, Darlin’. 

—Joel. 

You’ve been tryin’ to get used to the gifts. 

To the way Joel leaves things for you without a word. Pays for what you need. Asks for nothin’ back. You don’t know if it’s guilt over your dad bein’ locked away—or if he just likes takin’ care of you. 

There’s a part of you that wrestles with it. That still wants to earn it somehow.

But there is another part. One that secretly loves the idea of being taken care of. 

You made him dinner tonight, even he was a little shocked. He ate in silence, like he asked. You left him there while you showered. Now you’re headin’ back downstairs. Back to him. 

Back to this new routine. 

You’re wearin’ one of his shirts–big, warm right out of the dryer. You took it from his drawer a few weeks ago, he didn’t notice. 

But he’s seen it on you. 

“We ain’t watchin’ another one of them damn horror movies,” Joel grumbled, settling back on the couch. “Last one was fuckin’ terrible.” 

You roll your eyes as you sit down next to him. “Fine,” you mutter. “You pick, then. Since I’m so awful at it.” 

He picks some older movies. Lettin’ it play in the background, more noise than anything else. You take a small sip of beer he put out for you. 

“How was work?” you ask softly. Joel just huffs. Doesn’t look over. “Long,” he says. “Tired of dealin’ with people who don’t know what the hell they’re doin’.”

He seemed a little better when he walked through the door. A little less stressed out. You wonder if it’s the movies. The silence. Just sittin’ together. 

You lean into him, slow, like you always do. And he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift away from you. He’s gotten used to it.

You watch him. Not sayin’ a word—just takin’ in the way his jaw stays tighty, the way he grips his beer a little too firm. Eyes on the TV, but not really watchin’. He’s so wound up. You can see it. The movie drags on, just background noise between the two of you now.  You debate it. Talk yourself out of it. Then back into it. Then out again. 

And then his hand moves. To your thigh, fingers slowly grazing your skin. Like he means it this time. 

Fuck it.  You slide off the couch and down to your knees. Settle between his legs–spread wide and lazy where he sits. 

He looks down at you. Eyes dark. Jaw tight. 

“What’re y’doin’, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low. 

You don’t answer at first, just reach for his belt; your fingers trembling, eyes locked on his. “Helpin’ you relax.” 

Joel doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t flinch. Just exhales through his nose.  You tug the belt free quickly. Pop the button, fingers slippin’ to the zipper–but he gets there first. Reaches down before you, grabbing it. 

Drags it down himself. The sound cuts through the room. Then he pushes his jeans and boxers down to his thighs, stopping just under the muscle. Hard. Already waiting for you. Joel leans back into the couch. One arm thrown over the back like he’s settlin’ in. His eyes are on you, just watching. 

You pause. Just for a second. Because he’s there–thick, swollen, and the tip of his cock is glistening with pre-cum. 

You swallow hard. 

“Go on, princess,” he mutters. “Ain’t the time to get shy on me now.”

You reach out, wrapping your fingers around the base of his cock. A low groan comes from his throat when you start stroking him.

“Fuck,” he says, jaw tight. “This’ a bad fuckin’ idea.” 

 But he’s not pulling away. Just lets you keep going. 

You stroke him, feel him twitch in your hand, just a little. Then again. You do it just to tease him, you hear him moan, strained, quiet, fighting that need to thrust into your palm. Leaning in, you lick a slow line from the base of his cock to the tip. Draggin’ your tongue over the thick vein. The taste of him–salty–spreads across your lips. Then your mouth wraps around the head of his cock, tongue swirling. 

Joel’s hand moves fast–right to the back of your head and his fingers knot in your hair, firmly. Holding you. 

You open your mouth wider, taking him in slowly. Let him guide across your tongue, inch by inch, until your lips are nearly at the base and your throat tightens around him.

“God—fuck,” he breaths. “That mouth... Been thinkin’ about this. Thinkin’ how good it’d feel.” 

You set a rhythm, steady, wet and he lets you for a minute. Just watches. His cock disappears into your mouth over and over, until your chin’s slick and his cock’s shining with spit. 

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” Joel mutters. He grips your hair tighter, it hurts a little. 

“You hear me?” 

You moan around him. You’re drooling now, a filthy fuckin’ mess and he’s lovin’ it. 

His hands lock in your hair now, fingers twisting deep as he starts to move. Not sloppy. Not rushed. 

Controlled. 

He knows what he’s doin’. Knows how to use your mouth…how long to keep you right there on the edge. Just enough to drive you crazy. Just enough to make you fuckin’ need it. 

“Just like that, baby,” he groans. “Goddamn–y’know what you’re doing, don’t you?” 

You gag, just a little, when he pushes deeper and he grunts, breathless. “Easy,” he says, even as his hips roll forward. 

“Don’t choke, sweetheart,” he breaths. “Ain’t done with you yet.” 

Your spit is all over his cock, your throat is raw, eyes glassy, tears threatenin’ to spill. Joel watches, doesn’t miss a thing. 

“Look at that mess,” he groans. “Drippin’ down your chin. So fuckin’ pretty like this.” 

He holds your head steady and starts to thrust harder into your mouth. Your hands dig into his thighs, bracing. Your jaw burns–but you don’t stop. You take it, like you’re supposed to. 

“Shit,” Joel growls, voice cracking. “The way you suck my cock–princess, fuck.” 

A deep moan.

“Makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.” 

He’s breathing is ragged now. Not gone…not yet…but close. Right on the edge. 

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” he asks. “Wanted me usin’ that mouth like this.” 

You moan around him and his cock twitches on your tongue. 

“Baby,” he breaths. “You keep doin’ that–I’m gonna fuckin’ cum.” 

But you don’t stop. You moan again–on purpose. Throat tight, lips wrapped, tongue draggin’ slow along every thick inch as he fucks your mouth. 

Joel moans, louder this time. 

“Jesus–fuck—you’re takin’ me so good,” he pants. “So. Fuckin’. Good.” 

You can feel it. The way his thighs tense up. The sharp jerk of his hips, the rough sound of his breathing. “I’m gon’ cum,” he growls. “You ready for it? Gonna swallow for me, huh?” 

You nod–best you can, mouth full, eyes up. He pushes you down deeper onto his cock. 

“That’s it,” Joel groans. “That’s it–God—don’t—”  Then he spills into your mouth. Thick, hot, endless. You try to swallow every drop, but he’s still twitching, still pulsing, and it leaks past your lip.

His chest heaves, breath ragged. 

And then—

Buzzzzz. Buzzzzz.

The phone on the coffee table goes off.

Joel exhales hard, like the wind just got knocked out of him. Then carefully, he pulls out of your mouth, stands up, pulls up his pants and grabs the phone off the table. You’re still on your knees. Panting. Lips swollen. His cum at the corner of your lips. “Yeah?” he answers. 

A pause. 

“I’m home.” 

His eyes drop down to you. He reaches out and swipes his thumb across your bottom lip. Smears the cum away with one slow drag. “Tommy,” he sighs. “Was workin’ on somethin’.” 

Walks into the kitchen like nothin’s changed. Pulls his zipper up, belt clicks as he threads it back through. Phone still pressed to his ear. 

He leaves you there. Kneeling. Swollen-lipped. Messy. Wet. 

And you don’t know what’s worse. That he walked off like nothin’ happened–like everything’s still the same. Or that you’re just kneelin’ there–cunt throbbing, soaked, mouth wrecked from takin’ him. Wanting more. 

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[monbons]

Stitchy Sunday Musings

Thanks for the tag @thewholelemon. I also don't really have an update, but I did have a bit of a reflection I wanted to share today that I hope will speak to some of you---and selfishly---also keep me motivated on the days that are hard. So, with that, story time...

Exactly a year ago, I started my doll-stitching journey and the very first set of dolls I ever gifted were mermaids. I was inspired by @iamamythologicalcreature's gorgeous mer-May art.

This first set was entirely hand stitched because I did not have a sewing machine, nor did I think making dolls would become something I actively pursued in any real way. It was just something I did for fun---a way to channel my creative energy when the words wouldn't come while also paying tribute to some of my favorite fics and their authors.

Fast-forward to my newest dolls and the growth is almost unbelievable. You can see aspects of my final style in my very first dolls, but everything about this last set has evolved. This particular set represents just over 24 hours of work (a significant chunk of them on that tail that boasts 600+ hand-sewn sequins). I also experimented with new hair textures and colors, and apparently, I embroider eyebrows now. (As if making the eyes symmetrical wasn't hard enough!)

It may sound like I am boasting. I swear I am not. Instead, I wanted to post this because this is just one year of committing to a thing and working really fucking hard at it. It is also the kind of visible "success" that is so hard to get elsewhere.

When I first started contributing to fandom, it was as a writer. If your primary contribution to fandom is writing, it can be really hard to do a side-by-side comparison like this. As a result, we often rely on measures of growth or success that can be compared: kudos, reblogs, and comments obviously, but also word counts, fics published per year, etc. Honestly? None of those are reliable (and dare I say worthy?) measures of how beautiful a piece of work is, let alone a journey of growth and joy. It isn't to say they don't have their place, but "the numbers" aren't everything...and they can often feel disheartening.

Anyway, I've been feeling really down on myself recently for a whole host of reasons, but a huge contributor is that I've been having so much trouble with writing. For weeks, "the numbers" have haunted me. Not just the public numbers (I've wanted to scream into a pillow about kudos and likes more than once this year), but the private ones (I'm "behind" on words from this same point last year).

And then I took this humble doll offering to a book signing this past week and the author cried tears of joy, which made me cry. Several people in the signing line gasped when they held up my little merman and his love. Several others came up and talked to me about my art and wanted to know more. For the first time in months, I felt really proud of something I had made, and I guess this post is about holding on to that feeling. When I made these dolls, I wasn't trying to meet some external metric or creating for audience consumption. I wasn't even sure I would post my dolls anywhere since this isn't SnowBaz. I was simply making for the joy of it, and that night, which cannot be quantified in likes or comments or numbers of any kind, filled me up in a way I desperately needed.

Anyway, if you are still with me after this long ramble, thank you. Like I said, it was mostly for me. I wanted to remember that the beauty of my work actually can't be measured, no matter how much I try to do so. That I may not always be lucky enough to see the impact on others like I did with these dolls, but that doesn't make the effort any less valuable. And most of all, that none of that is the point. I wanted to make these dolls, I enjoyed making these dolls, and I am getting better at it because making dolls makes me happy. I needed to remember that. And if that was the case for me, I figured someone else might need to remember it too.

It feels weird to tag people in this, but hellos and high-fives from the philosophical doll factory anyway. May your creative endeavors bring you joy today and every day.

@alexalexinii, @argumentativeantitheticalg, @aristocratic-otter, @arthurkko, @artsyunderstudy, @bachusekart, @best--dress, @blackberrysummerblog, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @bookish-bogwitch, @confused-bi-queer, @cutestkilla, @drowninginships, @emeryhall, @facewithoutheart, @harrie-leithillustration, @hushed-chorus, @iamamythologicalcreature, @ic3que3n, @ileadacharmedlife, @katatsumuli, @larkral, @letraspal, @mooncello, @noblecorgi, @orange-peony, @prettygoododds, @raenestee, @rbkzz, @roomwithanopenfire, @run-for-chamo-miles, @rimeswithpurple, @shrekgogurt, @skeedelvee, @stitchyqueer, @supercutedinosaurs, @talentpiper11, @the-beard-of-edward-teach, @twinkle-twinkle-up-above, @theimpossibledemon, @thewholelemon, @wellbelesbian, @whatevertheweather, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @youarenevertooold, @jyae23, @j-trow-95

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED DOING THE PARENT AU BUT THEIR KID COMING OUT AS TRANSGENDER🏳️‍⚧️???LOVE UR FICS BTW THEYRE SO GOOD🫶🫶

(ABSOLUTELY ALSO THANK YOUUU SO MUCH

Honestly before reading my fics—i know there are transphobic jerks. And I definitely know that coming out as trans to literally anyone its not always going to be met with understanding and care (which fucking sucks!) because Honestly trans people in general should have someone who understands and cares. I know there are going to be people who don't agree with how I write the boys in this specific scenario but to me specifically I believe these dorks wouldnt really be bothered over trans people i mean they are literally in new York (pretty sure they've seen shit) with all that said enjoy!

Epilogue Bill Dickey – When his kid comes out as transgender

When your kid first tells Bill?

It’s not a scene. There’s no big argument. He’s in the middle of a rant about “how Hollywood's killing the genre with A24-core trauma-bait garbage,” when your kid says it—quiet, maybe nervous, maybe not. Just a plain sentence:

> “Dad… I’m not your daughter. I’m your son.”

Bill blinks. Squints. Sets down his paper plate of pizza.

> “...Okay.”

That’s it.

No fireworks. No tantrum. No “you’re confused” lecture. Just “okay,” and a scratch of his scruffy beard.

> “You still do the dishes? Then I don’t give a shit. Just don’t change your name to ‘Anakin’ or some dumb crap.”

That’s his way of trying. And for a while, it feels like enough. He messes up pronouns sometimes. He forgets. But there’s no hate in it. He buys his son a thrift-store Spider-Man hoodie without a word. Doesn’t bat an eye when you cut his hair. Even argues with the school over the bathroom thing—clumsily, loudly, but with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer:

> “If my kid can recite Klingon, he can pee wherever he wants, okay? You wanna fight about it, Principal Palpatine?”

But then—

One day, he comes home. Blood on his lip. Scrape on his cheek. Shoulders hunched. Won’t meet your eyes.

Bill sees red.

> “What happened.”

Your son tries to brush it off. “It’s nothing. Just some guys at lunch. They said I wasn’t—real.”

That’s when Bill goes quiet. Like truly quiet.

Not in defeat. In rage.

> “What’d you say?”

Your son repeats it. Voice cracking this time.

> “They said I’m just pretending. That I’m still—still a girl.”

Bill stands up, slow and dangerous.

> “Gimme names.”

> “Dad—”

> “Names. First and last. If they have a Facebook I’m gonna flame ‘these fuckin jerk offs”

You put a hand on his arm. “Bill, stop.”

But he’s shaking. Not because he’s mad someone touched his kid—but because for once, he doesn’t know what to say. This isn’t a forum flame war. This isn’t a fandom grudge match. This is real, and his kid’s standing there, bleeding, trying not to cry, and Bill realizes:

He wasn’t doing enough.

Not really.

So he takes a breath. Sits down. Doesn’t lecture. Doesn’t yell.

He just slowly opens his arms.

Your son hesitates—then folds into them, and Bill holds on like he’s gripping onto the last save file in a corrupted game.

> “Listen to me,” he says, rough. “You’re my kid. You’re a pain in my ass. And you’re real. Anyone says otherwise? They answer to me. Got it?”

Your son nods into his shoulder.

> “Good. Now c’mon. Let’s go buy you a new hoodie. One that doesn’t smell like Doritos and trauma. And after that, I’m teaching you how to throw a punch.”

> “You said I couldn’t hit people.”

> “Yeah, well. I also said Firefly was overrated. People change.”

‐--

Epilogue Pete DiNunzio – When Anthony comes out as a trans girl

Pete’s halfway through folding laundry—badly—grumbling about how socks keep disappearing and why the hell does one hoodie have three sleeves? You and him had just had a brief spat about his refusal to read the laundry tags ("I know how cotton works, babe!") and now he's cooling off with busy hands and loud music.

That’s when Anthony—quiet, nervous, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big—walks in and just… stands there.

Pete glances over.

> “Hey. You need somethin’?”

Anthony fidgets. Eyes on the floor.

> “Can we talk?”

The laundry gets dropped instantly. Pete’s always on full-alert when it comes to his kid.

> “Yeah. Yeah, c’mere. What’s goin’ on?”

Anthony hesitates. Then:

> “I’m… I’m not a boy, Dad.”

Pete just blinks.

> “Okay. So what are you then?”

> “I’m a girl. My name is Lily.”

It’s so quiet for a beat, you could hear a sock fall.

Pete looks at her—really looks. At the way her hands tremble. The way she won't meet his eyes. Like she’s expecting him to yell. Like she’s braced for disappointment.

And all that attitude Pete wears like armor? It just drops.

He walks over slowly, lowering his voice in that way he only does when something matters.

> “Lily, huh?”

She nods.

> “You scared I wasn’t gonna be okay with it?”

Another nod.

Pete doesn’t ask why. He just pulls her into the biggest, firmest hug.

> “Well that’s stupid. Because I love you, no matter what. You hear me? You could come in here and tell me you’re actually a werewolf and I’d still be your Dad. I'd just buy you more meat.”

Lily laughs. It cracks mid-sob.

Pete holds her tighter.

> “Hey, you know what else? Lily’s a beautiful name. Suits you.”

He ruffles her hair gently.

> “You’re brave, y’know that? Takes guts. And you don’t ever gotta be scared to tell me stuff like this. You’re my kid. My girl. Nothin’ changes that.”

Then, after a pause, trying real hard to keep it casual:

> “You wanna go out and get donuts later? We can get your favorite and, uh… maybe hit the thrift store? If you wanna look at different clothes or whateva. No pressure.”

Lily lights up a little. You can tell she wasn’t expecting this.

> “You’d really do that?”

Pete gives her a look like she just asked if the sky’s blue.

> “Are you kiddin’? I’d wear a tutu in Times Square if it made you smile.”

> “…Can I paint your nails?”

Pete groans with mock offense.

Lily grins through her tears. Pete wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of her head, gruff but full of warmth.

> “Love you, principessa.”

And he means it—with every ounce of that stubborn, foul-mouthed, fiercely loyal heart.

And one night, while Lily's asleep on the couch, Pete gently folds up that old blue baby blanket she used to wear as a cape—and tucks it away in a box. Doesn’t throw it out.

He just saves it.

Not because he misses who Lily used to be.

But because every version of his kid is worth loving.

---

Josh levy – When his daughter comes out as a trans man

Josh is pacing in the kitchen, ranting about the latest ridiculous plot hole in a sci-fi show nobody asked him to watch again. You’re doing dishes, half-listening, until your kid—quiet, tired-eyed, hoodie swallowed around his frame—stands in the doorway and clears his throat.

Josh freezes mid-rant.

> “You okay, peanut?”

(He still calls him that, even though he’s fourteen and taller than Josh now.)

Your son takes a shaky breath.

> “Dad, I need to tell you something. And I don’t want you to yell.”

Josh's spine straightens, face suddenly serious.

> “I’m not gonna yell. I swear.”

Another breath.

> “I’m not a girl. I’m a boy. My name’s Eli.”

Josh doesn’t answer right away.

He just… stares. Processing. His brow twitches the way it does when his brain short-circuits from too many emotions at once. Confusion. Shock. Guilt. And then—pain. Because why the hell was his kid scared to tell him?

> “Wait—wait. So... you’re a boy? You’re my son?”

Eli nods, looking at the floor, bracing for something ugly.

Josh swears under his breath. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands and paces.

> “Jesus. I didn’t see it. I didn’t see it. How long have you felt like this?”

> “Forever. I just… didn’t know how to say it. I was scared you’d get mad. Or say I was making it up.”

Josh turns to him, eyes glassy, voice cracking with rawness he doesn’t show often.

> “Mad? Mad?! Eli—Eli, I’m not mad. I’m pissed at myself. You think I care if my kid’s a boy, a girl, or a freakin’ alien hybrid with a lightsaber?! You could tell me you wanna live on Mars and I’d be there with a damn helmet on.”

> “But you always talk about, like… genetics. And how people ruin the science in everything—”

> “Yeah, in fiction! You think I care about chromosomes more than I care about you?”

Josh runs a hand through his hair. He’s rambling now.

> “You’re my kid. You’re Eli. You’re my son. And I swear on every signed Boba Fett figure in my room—I will figure this out. I will screw up. I’ll say the wrong thing. But I’ll learn, okay? Because nothing matters more than you. You’re not a phase. You’re you. And I love you.”

Eli wipes his eyes, sniffling.

> “Even if I don’t look like what you expected?”

Josh snorts.

> “Kid, I didn’t expect anything. I thought you’d end up a hacker who lives off SpaghettiOs. But this? This I can handle.”

A beat.

> “…Can I call you 'kiddo' still, or is that lame?”

Eli laughs—a real one this time.

> “Kiddo’s fine.”

Josh pulls him into a fierce hug, whispering into his hair.

> “I got you, kiddo. Always.”

Then, with a sniff and a sudden shift to humor to keep from crying again:

> “Now if anyone at school gives you crap, I will show up in full Federation uniform and quote Spock until their souls leave their bodies.”

Eli chuckles. Josh kisses the top of his head.

> “Welcome home, son.”

---

Jerry – When his child comes out as a trans man

It’s a quiet, golden afternoon. The sun’s pouring in through the windows, making everything feel peaceful. Jerry’s at the kitchen table, humming softly to himself as he mixes up something strange—probably some kind of potion for the garden or one of his magical projects. You can tell he’s in his element, lost in a world of fantasy, but when his daughter walks in, her eyes soft and a little unsure, the mood shifts.

She hesitates in the doorway, looking like she's carrying the weight of a thousand secrets.

Jerry looks up, his smile never wavering.

> “Ah, my brave adventurer! What brings you to my kingdom this fine afternoon?”

She blinks, a little taken aback by the whimsical tone, but it’s a relief. Jerry’s never made things feel heavy, always keeping them light. Her nervousness melts just a little.

> “Dad, can we talk?”

Jerry stands up, immediately sensing something deeper in his voice. He walks over and gives her a gentle touch on the shoulder.

> “Of course, my child. Always. What’s troubling you?”

Nathan takes a deep breath.

> “I’m not a girl, Dad. I’m a boy. My name’s Nathan.”

Jerry’s hands freeze for a second, his eyes widening just slightly. But then, he exhales, calm and thoughtful, as though he’s been expecting this, like it was always a part of the magic that makes Nathan…Nathan

> “Nathan, huh?”

Nathan looks down at the floor, bracing himself for Jerry’s reaction. Jerry places his hands on his son’s shoulders, guiding him gently to sit at the kitchen table. He sits across from him, their eyes meeting. A soft smile tugs at Jerry’s lips.

> “That’s a beautiful name. I knew there was something extraordinary about you. Like a hidden spell that’s been waiting to be cast.”

Nathan’s brow furrows.

> “But… what about all the other stuff? Will you still love me?”

Jerry smiles wider, his eyes soft and warm. His voice drops to a gentle whisper, almost as if he’s sharing a secret.

> “Oh, my brave son… my heart is a house full of love, and it has always had a room just for you. No magic, no potion, no curse could ever change that.”

He takes Nathan’s hand in his own, holding it with tenderness.

> “You are exactly who you are supposed to be. And you will always be enough. In fact, I think you’re even more magical now. More real. Like you’ve shed an old skin and are ready to be something... new.”

Nathan's eyes are welling up now, and Jerry doesn’t shy away from it. He just leans in, wrapping his arms around his son in a soft, almost ethereal embrace.

> “I’m so proud of you, Nathan. I know this can be hard, but I promise you, together, we’ll make this journey. And I will make sure you feel safe in my kingdom, always.”

Nathan sniffles, feeling a weight he didn’t realize he’d been carrying finally start to lift.

> “You’re not disappointed?”

Jerry chuckles softly, brushing a few stray locks of hair out of Nathan’s face.

> “Mad? No. Disappointed? Never. You’re my son, Nathan. Always have been, always will be. And if you ever feel lost, just remember: there’s a whole world of adventures out there, and you’ve got the heart of a hero.”

Nathan finally cracks a smile, and Jerry beams.

> “Now, do you want to see the garden? I’m working on a little something special. I’ve got a potion brewing that might just turn the garden into a fairy wonderland.”

Nathan nods, wiping his eyes.

> “That sounds amazing.”

> “Of course it does,” Jerry says with a wink, “It’s my magic, after all.”

---

[chaoticquill]

An Open Letter to the BSD Fandom

Long post incoming. TL;DR: fuck fandom bullying. Full stop.

Fellow BSDers,

I have been writing for the BSD fandom since August 2021, where I started to write my way out of my big traumas. Somehow, with one image in my head, I started the CAU with A Drop of Black Coffee in the Pot. I'm not entirely sure if that makes me a "big name" in the fandom or whether that gives what I'm about to say more "clout," but hey... it's worth a shot, yeah? Because maybe people will listen.

Maybe.

Since coming into this fandom, I've made a lot of friends through Discord, and I have had a blast creating for, with, and among them. Through Discord, I became a rare pair aficionado and gained a soft spot for Chuuatsu, ChuuRan, and others. The conversations I had with fans, in short, brought me more than peace from my traumas. I found myself among a community who, through shared interests in pretty anime characters based on historical authors, held me up as I faced more traumas, enjoyed more successes, and just... lived.

HOWEVER (emphasis), in the last year or so, three of who I would consider my closest Discord friends--three people I care deeply about--have been bullied out of the fandom for their unconventional ships or portrayal of characters or preference for dead dove content, and two more have been targets of cyberbullying.

In one case, I was also targeted by Dazai Anon (one of the cyberbullies mentioned above). My response to this is always simple: I laugh at the death threats because I'm already dead inside, I delete the comments, I block the posts, and I keep writing what brings me joy. Sometimes, that's ChuuAtsu. Sometimes, that's a more popular ship. And in all cases, that's totally fine.

But that's me. And not everyone is like me.

I've written this post a dozen times in my head. I contemplated, as the "adult" in the room, putting everyone in timeout or putting on my disappointed parent face. But instead, I settled on this.

BSD fandom, respectfully, what the actual fuck?

Let me be perfectly clear: there is no good reason to ever bully anyone, but ships, tropes, character preferences and readings? These are among the worst. And don't even get me started on what's "canon."

What I guess I'm really trying to say is this: the three people I know who stopped making BSD content did because certain members of the community took their fun away. And that's never okay. There is room in the fandom for the main ships and the rarepairs. There's room for the fluffmongers, angst fiends, and dead dove aficionados. In fact, many of the friends I mention write content I personally don't, nor do they tend to write fluff and explicit consent the way I tend to, but guess what? We appreciate each other's art. We share ideas. We hold each other up. And, most of all, we're friends, anyway.

So if I'm in any place to ask this fandom for anything, it's to keep your own space as a writer/creator without taking someone else's space away. It's to have fun creating content SKK, but stop taking fun away from the people who create DaRan or DazAtsu or KuniDazai or Kouyou x Dazai or whatever ship. Most important, be kind to one another, regardless of what characters, tropes, or ships we love because at the end of the day, we're not just pseuds or creators; behind the screen, we're human.

As people, I don't think we have anything to lose in this. We can still work around tags and tropes and ships and characters we don't enjoy. Plus, who knows? You might make a new friend, gain new perspective on a character dynamic you never thought about, exchange ideas and share excitement about the newest manga chapter... and that might bring joy to both of you.

I really hope this letter to be the start of something bigger, maybe something that will move through boundaries between fan communities. I've thought about events, challenges, movements... but my limited resources as a creator with 99 mental health issues mean that for now, those ideas will have to wait. This letter, inadequate as it feels, still says most of what I want it to say.

I often say I appreciate people taking the time to read my fics. I mean that for this letter, too. So thank you, truly.

And as always, don't forget to drink water.

Until my next update,

ChaoticQuill

[freeuselandonorris]

whats freeuselandonorris thinking these days

oh man anon that's a good question. i'm not entirely sure myself. felt like a bit of a weird hollow shell for the last few months due to Life Stuff and also just being crazy busy over the last month (admittedly mostly with nice stuff like going on holiday so i'm not complaining!)

i thinkkk i'm kind of sad that the landoscar era seems to be losing its shine for me a bit? which is largely just how my brain works but also is undeniably influenced by how toxic their respective fandoms are getting as the championship battle heats up and like, as much as i'm thrilled to see them both doing so well, i do kinda miss when the landoscar fandom in general was a bit more...harmonious? i've culled 99.9% of the actual drama from my dash but then you just see all the secondhand references to it and stuff and it just sucks the fun out of things a bit for me yk. and it's having an impact on the fic trends too (k @mecachrome's tracking of fluff vs angst in landoscar ao3 tags over the past year is FASCINATING) and idk i think i've just developed a bit of a weird aversion to seeking out new fics bc i want to just go back to the same few comfort fics all the time? so i'm probably missing some bangers but the desire just isn't there rn.

but yeah i think that combined with a general kind of anxiety burnout that's made me even worse than usual at staying on top of messages/inboxes and also my sex drive totally fucking disappearing for months (again, a reasonable anxiety/grief reaction but also one that feels really weird and upsetting to me whenever it happens because it's usually such an intrinsic part of my personality) has meant i haven't been feeling very freeuselandonorris recently 😔 BUT i am slowly trying to get back to the fun side of things and engaging in a way that feels enjoyable and manageable for me!

GOD sorry this was a whole fucking accidental vent post lmao

[theoppositequeens]

Fandom: The Empyrean (Fourth Wing)

Relationships: Bodhi & Imogen & Eya

Rating: T

Warnings and tags on Ao3. Read here on Ao3.

Me and @ellebellewritesfic have this little challenge of doing drabbles for 7 Taylor Swift songs each for 7 days of Bodhi Week 2025 by @empyreanevents

Written for Bodhi Week 2025 Day 3: Signet Countering. What could be the reason Bodhi manifested a signet blocker? Is it as simple as being useful for the revolution or is there a darker explanation? Title from Eyes Open - Taylor Swift.

nobody comes to save you now

---

It’s a showdown

And nobody comes to save you now

But you’ve got something they don’t

---

Bodhi is sure he, Eya and Imogen are going to die.

They’re surrounded.

It would be almost a fair fight, four against three, if the cadet from First Wing right in front of them wouldn’t have manifested a fire wielding signet just last week, among the first of their year group. It’s barely December, no one else has manifested anything significant, and though Cuir has been channeling to Bodhi for a while, he doesn’t have an inkling of what his signet may be.

He’s never going to find out.

Careful not to move too quickly, he inches in front of Imogen and Eya, though they don’t take the protection his bulk would offer, flanking him boldly instead. They’ve got weapons in hand, Imogen has pulled a pair of wicked-looking daggers, but Bodhi knows that her aim isn’t good. She might hit him, she might not. If she doesn’t, he’ll kill them for sure. If she does, there’s no saying he won’t be quicker, or able to torch them while wounded.

Rushing them will do no good either, as there’s too much distance to cover. They’d be burnt before they got there.

“Look at you,” a woman on the fire-wielder’s right says. Her voice is mocking and sharp. “Cornered like the dogs you are.”

Bodhi chooses not to answer, but Imogen does, playing for time.

“What does that make you?” Imogen snorts, lifting her chin in challenge. “Our scraps? Because I could take you in a fight, Malva, and leave you in bloody tatters for the scavengers to gulp up.”

Sometimes Bodhi wonders how she knows the names of fucking everyone in the Quadrant, when she studiously pretends to ignore all of them. He’d kill to sit in on her gossip sessions with Quinn. They must be vicious.

At least Imogen will die vicious, as she’s always been.

“But this isn’t a fight,” Malva says, her tone gleeful in a way that is truly disturbing. “This is an execution. Look at you, all lined up against the wall.”

They were taken by surprise, and they’ve been backed into a dead end by the fire-wielder. It’s not near any main hallway. The chances of anyone coming across them are slim. Cuir has already relayed a distress call to any other marked ones within Basgiath, but there’s no telling if they’ll get here in time. Most of the second years – Xaden included – are on a fucking land nav course, out of range.

“All neat and orderly,” one of the others chuckles.

“You don’t even have it under fucking control yet, Tristan,” Imogen spits, defiance in every line of her tense body.

Tristan – that’s his name, the fire-wielder – smirks, cocking his head. “Well, I don’t need to have it under control. Just need to create a large enough blaze. And I’ve practiced for this.”

Fuck, that’s sickening.

“Been setting up bonfires by the Iakobos?” Imogen taunts, but Bodhi knows she’s afraid. Knows this is an embodiment of all of their nightmares.

“We aren’t our parents,” Eya tries, her tone soft and conciliatory. Bodhi admires her calm, her obvious attempt to de-escalate and buy them time, but he doubts it will work. “We haven’t betrayed Navarre.”

That’s a lie, but Bodhi isn’t going to tell them.

“You’ll die all the same. They killed my family,” Tristan says. “Why should their families deserve to live?”

Bodhi can see him raising his arms, and despair tries its best to claw up his throat. He feels like he might throw up.

“Calm, my Loyal One,” Cuir urges. “Think.”

But there’s no time to think.

“It’s no dragonfire,” Tristan comments, like he’s truly disappointed he can’t summon up that kind of power. “But it’ll do for traitors. Some kind of poetic justice.”

They’re going to die, all three of them, the same way their parents did. Burnt alive, only this is guaranteed to be a much slower death. The dragonfire that swept over their parents and siblings barely gave them time to scream. It was hot enough to be blue, scorching Bodhi’s face where he stood, hot enough to leave nothing behind.

This won’t be that hot. Tristan has barely got rudimentary control. They’re going to die in pain.

Imogen and Eya.

They’ve been his friends since childhood, both their parents from Aretia, and Bodhi can’t imagine better people to die alongside – except his cousin – but he wishes he was alone. He can take pain. He can take death, even if he’s afraid, especially knowing Cuir has relayed the identities of their attackers and Xaden will hunt them down the second he returns, or someone else will before then. He will be avenged, and these cowards will die.

But his friends.

Bodhi can’t stand the thought of a world without Imogen’s glare and her sharp tongue. A world without Eya’s knowing smile and her heart of gold.

They’ve pressed closer, the women, their shoulders against Bodhi’s, like they are one entity. And they have been, through childhood. Even if their closeness is not the same now, not after years of separation, and they’ve got other friends, they’re still a trio.

Funny, that they were all born in the same month, only days apart, and now they’ll all die on the same day, likely only seconds apart.

At least we weren’t alone, Bodhi thinks. Our mothers were friends, we slept in the same cradles, and we grew up together. We saw them all die together. We survived Threshing together. We bonded dragons together.

"And I will be with you, always," Cuir says. "You can do this.”

It’s a comforting thought.

The flames rise in Tristan’s hands and Imogen throws her first dagger.

It misses.

There’s no time to wait for Imogen to throw the other, because the standoff is broken and the flames are rushing towards them, insidious heat filling the hallway in a blaze. At his side, Eya moves as if to duck, as if to escape, and Bodhi remembers the same instinctual movement in his mother, seconds before her demise. The reflex to flinch from the heat emanating from Codagh’s maw.

No. No. Imogen and Eya won’t share the same fate.

Bodhi refuses to let them die like this.

His hands rise without his own input, as if to shield him from the flames, and as his wrist twists, the deadly heat dies as if all air has been extinguished, its power supply cut off.

There’s no time to ponder what he’s done, no time to process the roar of approval from Cuir in his ears.

Tristan’s eyes widen in fright and surprise before Imogen’s second dagger catches him in the chest. In the next moment, Bodhi is rushing the remaining cadets, and Imogen and Eya are following into the fray.

They come out with broken bones – Eya’s ribs – and a few bloody gashes, but they live.

[fishhateme]

i completely agree with dannielricciardo's addition!! i think that, while he was obviously very strong during most of his career, daniel doesn't have the same resilience towards public criticism that maybe max/oscar/others did (i say this with love). he was always very aware of what people were saying about him (not, like, lando levels though), and was visibly interested in 'the narrative', so to speak (he positioned himself as one of, if not the first, stars of dts, he was always insisting that his relationship with max was nonsexual, presumably because he was very aware of what the fandom was saying, and, as a whole, he's always been a bit of a showman. personally i love that about him, but he undeniably wanted to present a certain image of himself) So, to come into 2023 with your confidence having taken such hits during the mclaren era only to be immediately hit with an injury, a very long recovery, and immediate intense scrutiny during 2024 (and imo ageism with the whole liam thing), one can only imagine how hard it was for him to face the press and the public who were expressing nothing but disappointment and a sense that his career should have essentially been over ages ago. what op says about the revisionism after the liam flop is real - let's not forget what the atmosphere was surrounding daniel, every other comment was along the lines of him having to pack it up and for rbr/vcarb to stop 'wasting space' on him when there were rookies waiting in the wings

(as a side note i feel like a lot of us feel very angry -and rightfully so- because several (talented and capable!) drivers - capable just like daniel - are being given soooo much more grace for their difficulties adapting to new teams or getting good results, especially when daniel was a glorified punching bag after a certain point of the 2024 season)

It makes sense that this took away something that he'd always carried with him - call it his instinct, his passion, his fearlessness, his lack of doubt, maybe some of his trust, whatevs -, even as a child in the lower formulas, and (i risk getting very parasocial here but i feel like i sort of crossed that line with my first post) of course that would be mentally distressing, to lose that certainty you always had. i understand the initial impulse of retracting and hiding away to lick your wounds, but as i've said before, i think amidst all this pain he made the decision to sever himself completely from motorsports, which (regardless of whether it was the right decision or not) represented a vast majority of his entire life, personality, professional and i'd even say social environments (i know i sound farfetched here but it must be WILD to go from being surrounded by hundreds of people which work as a team for and with you to being reduced to yourself and maybe a personal assistant you talk to a few times a week, and we shouldn't forget that, because daniel chose an isolating path to try to heal)

he's gone from a wild, frenetic (and surely stressful and unsustainable, don't get me wrong) lifestyle to one that seems... quiet. I brought up this particular word in my original tags because I felt it was important - daniel isn't a quiet person. but lately, everything around him seems very quiet - a big empty mansion in la, a quiet, empty schedule with nothing to do most days, a quieted down personality that used to love the spotlight and now suddenly doesn't

i particularly liked the way dannielricciardo put it, which i thought was very very masterful: "he can't do anything right, according to you, so he will do nothing, so there's nothing to criticize him for or to ask of him. you can't ask a dead person for anything."

this newfound quietness of him, it feels like we're all grieving him even though he's still alive. And although I'm all for personal reinvention after a particularly painful or traumatic event, clearly this reinvention of him into this supposedly chill, therapy-speaking guy who doesn't care if he gets fucked over or if he needs a haircut or not is continuously threatened by the slivers of the old daniel shining through when he thinks nobody is watching - the constant deleting of moments from the past, late at night and sporadic, which feels almost tainted with some form of rage or bitterness that doesn't fit with the idea daniel is trying to sell of a happy, fulfilling life

i don't know. maybe i'm getting too narrative-obsessed or parasocial or whatever, but i can't imagine this being the new normal for so much longer, it's like he's punishing himself for the fiasco of last year by denying himself parts of his life which undeniably brought him happiness. even if he were to manage keeping this up, i'd hope he didn't, because keeping yourself quiet in a little box for fear of coming out and being judged seems like a sad fate for such a (usually) happy driver

"but I don't THINK this is the life that he wants" I am reading your tags and nodding so fucking hard like he's our but a man who is doing mentally well would not be privating 200 Instagram posts while getting wine drunk on a Sunday afternoon. Literally that "could a mentally ill person do that" core etc. he is forcing himself to want the life he has

op you read my mind!! I'm going to take the opportunity to go on a long (looooong) rant, because I've been dying to talk about this

For context this was on the tags of that latest post of danny saying he's done (again) that's been going around, I said that I wish him nothing but peace and quiet but I don't THINK he wants peace and quiet, and here's the thing - I really don't. I've been trying to keep quiet about it because a part of me felt like it was disrespectful to comment on a real person's mental health, but also like, yk, he's absolutely never going to see this, so I might as well get it off my chest

These past few months of daniel hanging out in LA and doing kind of... nothing? don't seem very genuine to me. And obviously you might say none of us know what's truly genuine, but Daniel has been in the public eye for over a decade and a half, and throughout that time he's been very consistent with his personality and aspirations. Sure, the wdc dream is discarded, but he always spoke about racing with love, and he's made several remarks about liking to do things, needing to do things and keep himself busy

So for him to call it quits altogether immediately seemed odd to me? Especially when he chose to do kind of... nothing at all?

In the tags I raised another issue that I think is important - Daniel's spent 30 or so out of his 35 years doing some form of racing. To stop doing that cold turkey would imply some form of hatred towards the sport, and despite all the (rightful) anger that's been going around about rbr/horner/helmut 'stealing' or 'taking' his love of it, so to speak, I don't think that's entirely correct.

It's surely there, somewhere - practically everyone who leaves F1 still involved themselves on some other form of motorsports, even Seb goes to the track sometimes or does some event (of course, you might say seb ended things on his terms, but while I think that's important to note I also think the larger trend as a whole points to drivers loving racing even when they leave a certain category, which tracks with the whole, y'know, risking their lives for the love of it aspect)

now let's circle back to the whole instagram delete spree thing, because i have some thoughts on that, too: I'm not the first person to say this and I won't be the last, but there is not a single time in a person's life where they're more self obsessed than when they're depressed. I say this both from personal experience and just talking to people - when you're not well mentally, you start getting paranoid about how people perceive you and, above all, try to manicure your image because you feel perceived in a way that makes you uncomfortable (the discomfort can come from being perceived as weak or whiny or whatever, and it doesn't happen to everyone, but id say it stems from the feeling of failure that a prolonged emotional distress can sometimes cause).

Now, important disclaimer, I'm NOT saying daniel is depressed, because I don't know daniel and I don't have the info to get to those conclusions, it's simply outside of what I could realistically infer from his behavior! What I AM saying is that just from an onlooker's perspective, he doesn't seem very fulfilled, and the fact that he repeatedly goes back to old posts from years ago to trim and trim and trim some more seems obsessive. Once or twice at first, sure, but he started deleting posts half a year ago and he's sporadically been doing so ever since. This might just be me, but even if you're not happy about the way your past turned out, a happy person doesn't feel the need to change it for the world, y'know?

a few months in perth just catching up with his family after so many years living out of a suitcase seemed both logical and healthy to me, but like, months and months of staying in la where you seemingly don't hang out with anyone except your asshole comedian friends (who coincidentally are the exact type of macho dude to say shit like men don't get depressed or something equally as ignorant and harmful as that, bffr) doesn't seem fulfilling, stimulating or just plain fun, even after taking into account danny's -sometimes odd- preferences about how to spend his fuckload of money

To me, daniel has been coming across lately as kind of a lost man, for lack of a better word.

He was clearly more deeply hurt by Singapore than he'd rather admit, but in the middle of that he started turning down any and all offers - even ones that would've made him happy!

F1 hurt him, yes, but F1 is only a sliver of the motorsports world, even if it's the most publicized. In his rejection of anything motorsports related, he's isolated himself from his homebase, and he kind of left himself jobless (as a mere peasant I'll admit that I'd love to have the kind of money to travel around the world for months without worrying about money in the slightest, but I imagine it eventually gets old, especially when there's nothing very mentally stimulating for you to do - let's be so fr, Daniel isn't going to be picking up a book about medieval history or something like that to pass the time). op said something that I loved and that really seems to encapsulate what I've been trying to say - "he is forcing himself to want the life he has". it really seems that way, it's that simple - i think he cut off too much too early and in the midst of his pain and betrayal, and now he's either too scared of getting hurt/ridiculed or simply too proud (though that wouldn't be very much like him tbh) to go back, even if it's on a different category, so he's stuck living this retired lifestyle when, newsflash, the retired lifestyle barely fulfils regular 70yo retirees, much less people who are still so, so young (and yes, 35 is young in the grand scheme of things, look at h*lmut marko ffs)

And like, I KNOW I've given it way too much thought and this is starting to enter rpf territory but like... I don't know. I can't help but wonder. He tries so hard to look happy but I feel like his smile doesn't reach his eyes anymore. (Just for the record I was originally going to respond to this ask saying something light hearted and not nearly as unhinged, along the lines of 'daniel is on his publicly fine but privately crying in the shower after downing a bottle wine by himself era', which was a joke, obviously, but then I reread it and it didn't feel like a joke at all? So anyways, here's this parasocial feverish ramble instead, hope it was semi coherent if only for the sake of the lovely @dannielricciardo)

[redlerred7]

I'm like a hundred words into the next chapter of Sincerity is Rock, Actually and I'm reminded if some comments I received and conversations I had back in April about the way I write Ryo. Specifically, about how strong my characterization of her is.

It confused me.

Don't get me wrong, I was happy everyone liked the way I wrote her, but I didn't understand why the people I talked to insisted my Ryo was different.

At the time, I wasn't familiar with the fanfic scene for Bocchi the Rock. Even now, I'd say I'm still not very familiar with it—but at least I've read a dozen or so fics since that time. I think I kinda understand the difference now?

The biggest thing I've seen is how a lot of Ryo's unleasant traits are toned down. She's less of an asshole; she's more emotive; she's more talkative; and most importantly, she thinks about how her actions affect other people and seems to adjusts her behavior accordingly.

No, stop that! She's a judgemental elitist with a permanent bitch face who borrows money from people without paying them back. Writing Ryo like she's a decent human being with a working concept of action and consequence removes the most interesting point of tension to her characterization: the fact that she can be so unpleasant while still being Ride or Die for her friends. You lose so much by sanding down those rough edges.

This sanding down of Ryo is also the reason I find myself not feeling as strongly for many of the shippy fics involving her. Ryo being such an asshole that you question why people are friends with her informs a lot of the friendships she does have.

Bocchi is a doormat who Ryo takes advantage of, but they also have An Understanding™ because of their mutual respect for the other's musicianship and a shared experience with being alone and unable/unwilling express their feelings to other people. Bocchi is willing to accept Ryo's worse qualities because… well, frankly, it's because she's desperate for friends. However! The other reason is because Ryo understands her, and will engage with her loneliness and negative feelings in a way that basically no one else in the cast is willing or able to engage.

Kita is infatuated with Ryo's coolness and uncompromising commitment to the bit—which, again, Ryo takes advantage of. From the other direction, Ryo respects Kita Go-Getter attitude and willingness to actually put in the work to get better at guitar—it's just that she's completely unable or unwilling to express that respect. Despite that, I get the sense that Kita still feels Ryo's respect on some level, and it makes her feel valued enough that her infatuation with Ryo never really goes away.

And finally, there's Nijika, who I went on a whole spiel about in chapter 2 of Sincerity is Rock, Actually, which I'll copy-paste here.

Honestly, Nijika's acceptance of Ryo's worst qualities is so fascinating for their dynamic. She's not trying to "fix" Ryo—and the fact that she isn't seems to be something Ryo is aware of. And even more fascinating is that, despite knowing that Nijika does very little to stop her, I don't really think Ryo tries to take advantage of Nijika the same way she would try with others. I'm not sure whether this is because Ryo rationalized a reason Nijika would be off limits or because Nijika gave her reasons. Regardless, it leaves them with a strange sense of equal footing that I find appealing.

All of these relationships lose a quality to them when Ryo isn't constantly trying to take advantage of people.

Though, I suppose I'm focusing too much on the Ryo-being-an-asshole part, since it's not like those tendencies would be relevant in every story. What is relevant is Ryo's lack of emotional intelligence.

I mentioned earlier that Ryo's flat affect is one of those things that are toned down often in fics. It's not nearly as toned down as the asshole aspects, but it's still different enough that I noticed it.

The difference, I've found, is that people seem to write Ryo's stoicism as either:

A. Ryo deliberately holding back her emotions,

B. Ryo simply not feeling her emotions that strongly,

or lastly, C. some combination of the above two.

C feels the most correct of the options I listed, and is also relatively common in the fics I've read, but I also feel like it's incomplete. It misses an important aspect in that I don't think Ryo actually understands emotions in general. Like, at all.

Think about it: Ryo doesn't feel most of her emotions very strongly. Whatever emotions she does feel stongly, she doesn't understand, so she pushes them out of her mind and doesn't express them—at least not outside of music. In doing so, she creates the outward appearance of stoicism, which her peers find her cool, thus reinforcing the behavior.

Sounds about right for Ryo, right? Wanna know how that reads to me?

Ryo is a teenaged boy—or at least she acts like one.

Like, it's so obvious to me! The commitment to the bit; the emotional constipation; even the general assholery! From the moment I first watched the show, Ryo always felt so "teenaged boy"-coded. She reminded me of a bunch of friends I had back when I was studying at an all-boys highschool.

Which also explains why, of all the fics I've read, the ones where Ryo is a trans girl were the ones most similar to how I would write her. Because of course they would be! Trans!Ryo writers obviously understand the teenaged boy-like aspects of Ryo. The difference seems to be that trans!Ryo writers want to distance Ryo from those aspects while I lean harder into them.

So, to conclude this post, let me answer the question that confounded me at the start: what makes the way I write Ryo different from others?

My Ryo is an asshole

My Ryo doesn't feel most emotions strongly. When she does feel them strongly, she doesn't understand them. To avoid confusion, she shoved those emotions aside and doesn't think about or express them.

My Ryo is basically a teenaged boy who is a girl.

Does that make sense?

[stellarspecter]

@pscentral event 20: antagonists ↳ THE LORDS IN BLACK in NERDY PRUDES MUST DIE

[s1ck-pupp3t]

I love, Ms Paint. CHEERS!

OK real art dump over. Click MORE for Real dumb stuff

something something They faces killing me why nobody gaf. Its a Transparent .PNg! You can put them any where to Not Care About.

[softredrobin]

[knocks] sonadow nation, hellooooo can i come in??? i brought an application [waves fanart in the air like a flag]

[for-the-evulz]

look at my CHUD APPRENTICE. im gonna throw a BALL at his HEAD

[unforth]

ngl I've been increasingly struggling with the use of feminizing language and "but make them women" stuff in my main fandoms, all of which are about queer Asian men. It's always bothered me but I feel like it's bothering me even more now, and I'm not sure if that's because it's become more prevalent or if I'm getting more sensitive to it. I just can't help but want to point out, like...

1. If yall want women and lesbians... you know there are fandoms... with women and lesbians... right? Women and lesbians are great! I'm begging you to go read stories that actually are about them.

2. Like seriously if you want stories about women why are you in the gay guy bl fandom

3. White fans please unpack why you think that lithe Asian gay man needs to be a woman, needs to be pregnant, why you are calling him breedable, or babygirl, or malewife. Like I am begging people who do this to spend five minutes considering why they do, why you think it's okay, why it's maybe different than saying even the same things about white people, like yall just collectively forgetting decades of racist feminizing language weaponized against Asian men.

I'm not saying anything I haven't said before but it's just been really A Lot recently if I have to see one more post about any MXTX character needing to be a breedable malewife maid I'm going to scream.

Note: this is NOT about trans head canons or trans stuff. I love trans masc and trans fem stuff. Don't stop.

(Disclaimer: I am also white.)

Also note like... this isn't about any specific fan having a preference. People like mpreg. People like gender swaps. That's great! I support an individual's preferences! But just because behavior is okay on an individual level, that doesn't mean it doesn't start to get a little awkward at a collective fandom level. And idk, it's hard to divorce my personal discomfort with some of these things from an assessment of if it's actually ~a problem~ so maybe I'm just not recognizing my own issues here, but... yeah. I keep starting to write more then deleting it so I guess I'll shut up now.

[the-strange-creature]

Tma au where Jon is alterhuman/otherkin and therefore feels euphoria when he starts to become as inhuman as he feels

[goblinnobraincell]

sometimes.....sometimes you have a very normal time......so normal about my DnD character

the cat and the shinx are named Blueberry

my brain disease is called Agapi

[starsabovethesun]

one thing I hate is when you have a character that you think about on the daily and literally can't do your life without thinking about them, but then the character you always end up drawing is one you rarely think about

like yea i think this guy is cool but why do I always draw them instead of my fav??? my meow meow? the little guy who clearly needs therapy but i keep making them suffer? the one who lives in my head rent-free??

pls tell me I'm not alone yall :(