#dont know if i will be again but i needed to post this for my own sanity

[dimmadoome]

Yall will do anything but actually take responsibility for what you've created. Fanon is literally that. Canon crested by fans. They're all headcanons created by you, yes. Literally you, the person reading this that has written fanfic and drawn comics and posted your essays. You are the people writing stories and sharing art and making tumblr posts. Each an every person on here, commenting on my post outraged that I like the collicteve works of yourself had had a hand in creating fanon just by existing in the fandom. You all speak with such derison about yourselves and its actually making me laugh.

You actually can find fanon from people of color. Many many different ways. From discord servers to tumblr to twitter and beyond. AO3 Is just an archive for writers. It is not the be all end all of fandom. But, while we are talking about AO3.

It is not a streaming service. It is not youtube. The works there are not paid for. They are made by you and me and a billion other people who only want to share their art. THEY ARE YOUR PEERS, NOT A CONGLOMERATE. This whole response makes it sound like you're all complaining about the fucking disney channel queerbaiting you again. If YOU want more Babs stories. Write them. You dont want racist tropes in your fanfiction? Well howdy do you've already proven you can both write and post to the internet just by responding to this post. Write. Create. Build. Just like the rest of us normal people did when we added onto the fandom. If you want Cass to be more present in stories, write those. Jesus christ yall. This is YOUR baby you're trying to throw out with the bathwater.

At the end of the day, you need to step back and realize that if someone is telling you they like your work and the community you built with your own bare hands. Maybe say, hell yeah. Im glad you like it, instead of acting like you're above your own hard damn work.

Also. As a side note. Im an indigenous trans person. I understand what it means to desperately want to see representation for me and to know that i will likely never be able to make it a reality in any canon works. I find that fanon is more likely to be written by people of color, disabled people and queer people than canon will ever be. Fandom is a bigger and more diverse collective than canon. Which makes me love it more. Because I can have my voice heard. Because you can have your voice heard.

Its new and its beautiful and its ever changing and its so, so much better than almost 100 years of writers having to sanitize themselves for the capitalist elite who need every batboy to look the same and cant let gay characters exist without making it tragic or retconning it every two seconds.

In the end all I can say is this

Fanon is beautiful.

Fanon has more for me than canon does. Likely, if you are not white, not straight, not cis or not able bodied, it also has more for you than canon ever will.

You all deserve to love your community too. If there are racists. Well fuck man, do what everyone else is doing by drowning them out with your own, obviously not problematic the sligtest, content. So go. Fix what youre complaing about. But realize that you are part of the problem. You are part of the collective you are angrily decrying and nothing you can say will change anything unless you put your hands to paper and actually start working for the changes you want to see.

Hot take but I prefer fanon Batfam to Canon batfam because at least fanon does its best to give each of the batfam very distinct personalities and looks.

I love living in a world where blue eyed black haired white boy doesn't describe half the group, ya know?

[the-bloody-sadist]

ONLY SIX OF YOU WILL SEE THIS IM SURE BUT I HAVE BEEN ABLE TO WRITE AGAIN TODAY AND I AM MAKING PROGRESS ON THAT SINNER EPILOGUE THATS BEEN THE HANGNAIL OF MY LIFE LATELY AND I CANNOT EXPRESS HOW MUCH IVE FELT LIKE I CANT WRITE ANYMORE BECAUSE MY FOCUS AND MOTIVATION HAS BEEN FUCKED UP (since my brain is too aware that writing doesn’t make me money and new followers, ART does, so I’m wasting time) BUT I DONT KNOW MAYBE I STILL GOT IT. QUESTION MARK.

THATS ALL. 🫡

JUST KNOW IM WRITING THAT SINNER THING.

On a quieter note, I really miss having commentary and compliments on my writing. It was a huge source of fulfillment and comfort to me. I still get a nice trickle of it over the months from new Sinner readers mostly, but I miss when I was posting Dancing With Death on here (even though I loathe looking at the absolute dogshit versions that are up on tumblr because the formatting for posts is INSANE and I can’t copy-paste from my word doc for updated edits….oh god the minx sex chapter is so bad…oh god…) to the point where I’m ALMOST. Almost. Thinking about taking it out of Patreon lockdown and posting all of the chapters I have here? Because I’m really stuck on it and I think that any sort of feedback/interest might be the shove I need to start working on it again.

That is, if it even gets interest 🙂‍↕️ which is the issue. Do I want to sacrifice the small chance I have at professionally publishing DWD by posting everything on here and dooming it to self-publishing? Or do I want to keep it in the basement on Patreon where nobody engages with it except my best bud (who’s the biggest fan I love him so much) and I’m not sure if I’m making the right story choices….?

TOUGH DECISIONS. I DONT USUALLY POST ABOUT RANDOM THOUGHTS BUT IVE HAD TO CUT OFF SO MANY PEOPLE AFTER THE ELECTION AND IM A BIT LONELY. YOU UNDERSTAND IM SURE.

OKAY GOODNIGHT SLEEP TIGHT MUAH SHOULD I SING YOU A LITTLE LULLABY?? NO???????? NO??? WHO THE FUCK SAID THAT?!?

[r1poutmygvtz]

°•*⁀➷ Introduction °•*⁀➷

TRIGGERING BLOG: BLOCK DONT REPORT

cws for my blog: ed, weed, alcohol, and nicotine use, occasional sh and suicidal thoughts/talks about attempts, occasional mentions of abuse/trauma, religious trauma, pet/family death, medicine misuse, and overdoses

please tag any posts about christianity/god with "tw christianity" and any sh posts with either "tw sh" or "tw sh implied"

links proof-checked by my awesome moot @/atlasisneverenoughx

°•*⁀➷ About Me °•*⁀➷

Name: Vivian

Age: 16 (17 next month) im ok with adults interacting just don't be weird yk? id prefer followers/moots aged 15-22 but i'm ok with people older or younger following, i just may not interact as much (unless were already moots)

Gender/Pronouns/Sexuality: im gender apathetic/non-binary, i could care less about my gender or how i'm perceived. i use all pronouns but when asked i just say they/them or they/xem if we're close. (moots are allowed to use xey/xem for me freely btw and i encourage it!! :3) i'm aroace and pan (more specifically i rarely get crushes on people but still find some people attractive regardless of gender and i'm a sex repulsed asexual)

Diagnoses: depression, anxiety, and derealization (depersonalization is not diagnosed however im aware i deal with it and need to bring it up next session) my therapist is trying to diagnose me with ptsd and my mom wants me to get diagnosed with anorexia

Be Aware: i don't censor most things but i will tag everything i post according to what's mentioned. Another thing; i block freely and often so i apologize if you end up blocked

DNI: basic dni stuff (racist, homophobic, sexist, etc) generally bad people, NSFW/18+ blogs, anyone under 13 and men over 23 (unless we're already moots)

Blog stuff, stats/goals, and personal tag guide below cut

°•*⁀➷•* Blog °•*⁀➷•*

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Be respectful towards everyone on my page, if you have a problem with someone then please take it to the dms

Dont argue with people through my comments or through reblogs under my posts, again, take it to the dms

Please don't cal check my wieiads, i have a food scale and weigh just about everything to be as accurate as possible, cal checking just makes me anxious about nothing

Don't send me asks saying that i need to recover, im aware but saying that means and does nothing for me, it just makes me more motivated because someone's worried about me

If i reblog something that has misinformation or something that's accidentally offensive, pleaseee let me know so i can take it down, i don't always double check like i should

Send gr0ssp0, d!3t, m3alsp0, and occasional th!nsp0 requests to my askbox, anons are on!!

Fill out this form to get your name on my taglist for picrew/reblog games, do not reblog with tags list, and to get any trigger you want tagged with a tw tagged, staying anonymous is an option here as well!!

°•*⁀➷•* Links °•*⁀➷•*

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°•*⁀➷•* Stats °•*⁀➷•*

Height: 166cm

HW/SW: 136.6lbs

HBMI/SBMI: 25

LW: 98.6lbs

LBMI: 16.2

CW: ~113lbs

CBMI: 18.6

UGW: 90lbs

UGBMI: 15

°•*⁀➷•* Goals °•*⁀➷•*

GW1: 110lbs

GW2: 105lbs

GW3: 100lbs

GW4: 95lbs

UGW: 90lbs

°•*⁀➷ Tag Guide °•*⁀➷

There's a lot and most are self explanatory but in case you were wondering here's all of them :3

#gvtz- all my posts/reblogs

#gvtz life- talking about what's going on in my life, reblogging things i relate to

#gvtz rants/vents/rambles- my posts where i rant/vent/ramble and talk too much or let my mind wander while typing

#gvtz eats- wieiad

#gvtz cooks- recipes or talking about cooking

#gvtz works out- talks about exercising, progress, and anything fitness related

#gvtz asks- answering asks!!

#gvtz moots- reblogging moots stuff, playing reblog games with moots, moot related posts, or when my moot sends an ask

#gvtz will eat- meal plans/ideas

#gvtz 👙- th1nsp0

#gvtz 🍽️- m3alsp0

#gvtz diets- diet requests or diet related posts

#gvtz 🤢- gr0ssp0

#gvtz music- sharing my music or talking about music

#gvtz wants to eat :((- complaining about cravings probably, or complaining about not having food that i want

#gvtz advice- giving advice to asks!!

#gvtz is unstable- talking about mental problems other than an ed like mood swings, hallucinations, etc

#gvtz is productive??- talking about things/chores i did, planning my day

[princecroutons]

i won't lie, coming from a cat owner but it really feels like that you can't share about anything regarding your pets online, otherwise people would automatically assume you as "irresponsible", even though your doing the best you can with what resources you have

Oh its HORRIBLE! And i do understand, there are enough videos out there of people who aren't caring for their pets properly - and I mean like... full on neglect and/or abuse... but thats not the case for every single fucking person posting something about their animals online.

Cats don't get as much of the brunt of this - I owned rats for years and there are many communities that will tear you to shreds for innocuous shit!!!

LIke I said, i DO GET IT. I love animals, i love MY animals... but holy fuck man you dont know those people, their pets, their financial situations, their vets, their resources !!!!

I live in a small town on an island!!!!!! Im on disability!!!!!! I dont make enough money for pet insurance and dont qualify for payment plans or loans!!!!!! Croutons is extremely picky and doesnt like wet food!!!!!!!! I have done so much god damn research into what will help him !!!!!!!!! If i needed help I would ask - i HAVE asked... I've just asked my friends.

Idk... if you're concerned about a pet you see online at least have the due diligence to read through all the information that that person has provided about them?

I might write up another FAQ again

[d3vdgvrlll]

here we fucking go again (INTRO POST)

<name> maya

<age> 16- female

okay basically im like actually insane, ik everyone says that but dont try me lol. ive gotten backshots to my account like a million times, so i rlly dont have energy to do this againnnnn. i am kinky asf and prolly a hypersexual so if u dont fw that suck my clit ig???? basically, i girlblog but its like acc insane posting. if u dont like it just block, dont report. i post alot of nsfw shit, whether it be sexual or not, dont take it as an invitation to be innapropriate with me. (unless ur my age i jus don wan creeps in my dms anymore) I AM SO NORMAL ABOUT CAL GABRIEL AND MUSIC AS WELL!!!! same with media and shit. diagnosed OCD, PTSD, depression etc;

<DNI> NONE!!!! i literally do not give a single fuck. wanna kill people? chill. wanna rape girls? idc. nazi? sick opinion dude i hate jews too (im a practicing jew lol). racist? sick. say slurs ur not supposed to say? me too brah. schizo? hell yes kiss me. murderous? im alr wet. like i genuinely condone it all idc, ive seen so much shit in my life atp i just ball. not a bad person, just tired. or maybe i am a bad person, idrc.

<TW> gore, 3d, self hvrm, tcc, and lowk schizo posting

<music> jeff buckley (my husband), alex g, weezer, the cure, the smiths, the kooks, the kinks, radiohead, the red hot chili peppers, avenge sevenfold, metallica, system of a down, limp bizkit, Кино, the cocteau twins, rammstein, linkin park, megadeath, three doors down, led zeppelin, tom petty, pearl jam (yes im basic shut up), kimya dawson, the moldy peaches, petal, sweet trip, slowdive, elliot smith, tv girl, whirr, michael cera, the smashing pumpkins, cigs after sex, adrienne lenker, lana del rey, jack off jill, bikini kill, slutever, maequin pussy, soft cult, big theif, frankie cosmos, remember sports, cheerleader roadkill, reel big fish, car seat headrest, modern baseball, american football, tiugers jaw, vs self, joyce manor, deftonesssss, slipknot, pantera, korn, mazzy star, german error message, ptv, mcr, tom milsom, rob zombie, basement, glare, icp, seventh void, THE STROKES, canibal corpse, ethel cain, slayer, joy again, rotgut god, suzi moon, suicidal tendencies, amyl and the sniffers, surfbort, yucky duster, upchuck, the courtneys, msi, porches, taking back sunday, mbv, murderdolls, acid bath, throwing muses, nervous dater, slingshot dakota, blowout, nico play, great grandpa, solya, radiator hospital, municipal waste, napalm death, kittie, the voids, and so much more.

<my husbands> cal, spencer reid, felix catton, sid from skins, tate langdon (i know im basic 😔), joel miller, oberyn martel, joe goldberg, love quinn, victoria pedretti, emily prentiss, etc

<languages> i speak arabic, hebrew, spanish, and russian fluently. IF YOU NEED ME TO TRANSLATE SHIT I GOTCHUUUU

<interests> community, new girl, tcc (obv), skins, criminal minds, music mostly, SPACE!!! literature, physics, astronomy, NOT ASTROLOGY!!! and psych

[g0lk1tty]

(Not promoting ranting due to ways of coping and trying to find people that struggle with ED, Depression Self Harm like me i hope i can make friends that understand me and wont bully me for it!)

I WANT TO BE THIN BUT HE WAN'TS OTHERWISE!?

My boyfriend said "But i want my gf lil chubby" But this is what I want...Does he want a pig? Or a cute girl with a good waist and some thighs? I Dont know...Everyone call's me fat but all these older women and younger girls keep telling me to St*rve on like i will get better...Im trying to recover from a Binge/Bulimia state, Now im Falling into Ana...It was Mia now Ana I NEED SOMEONE TO UNDERSTAND, What should i do? Should i strive to be thin like them or should i be thin in the waist but not thighs? I just im scared, What if i gain more weight he will see me as ugly, But if i loose weight I'll worry him, He will get upset and scared- Im so worried...

Does anyone feel this way too? :( This whole time i was trying to get skinny for my future bf/gf only for him to like some chubbiness on a girl, Im so scared if i binge again and again or i st*rve and he will hate me... Does anyone experience this if so PLEASEEE reply to this post :<

[allbycharles]

Hello @silmarillisms ! Those are valid points so I will try to respond. Thank you for your response. Let me add more details to explain why I said what I said.

Tolkien did highly probably have ptsd after going through traumatic experiences of the war. We cannot know of course. That it was traumatizing is sure.

What Tolkien and nobody else knew in his times was how to heal PTSD which is what I meant by Tolkien did not know how trauma works.

Having it and getting rid of it is two different things. To get rid of my ptsd i had to use the first available manuals of the usa army that came out ten years ago. Before that there was no solution even though of course the doctors were trying a lot of things.

Your point of elves mental health is of course valid just as me not having any rights to tell how to write. I am not saying people have to write correctly ptsd treatment. Neither that elves work same as people.

Why was it important to state how mental health works and to have elves work same as humans from my perspective which you can happily ignore of course....and why in first place i wrote my first post:

People use art as help and I hear it daily from everyone around that: they think ptsd works like this and that, anxiety works like this and that, depression is cured by this and that.........and all of that circulates through chats, tv, social media and art and all of it is wrong. And gets people hurt very much and deeply. Because they did not get the right info.

And most of population works on examples they see around and big part of it is art.

I had no goal of criticizing anyones writting....I can see I tagged my post wrong so it sounded like "stop this and do what I just said or else I send a balrog" I am really sorry about that, I am going to change it to more informative.

What I meant was if you want to write correctly a person with ptsd then here have a very simplified version of how a ptsd usually works.

And hopefully many people who are victims of abuse or anything else will be on correct path to healing. Does the artist have a job to do this? Not at all. I wrote the post as information for writers not as rules. And I hoped more fanfiction with helpful info might appear.

I dunno who you met and what kind of traumatic experiences they had. And I of course dont talk about everybody. Thats why I tagged it as very simplified version. What I wrote is the usual way it goes for soldiers in dangerous situations which what was the first ops topic.....feeling of safety after years of war.

The manual I used on myself made by the usa army describes ptsd of soldiers going like this and is used on all ptsd soldiers victims which is why I wrote it as highly pissible for Elrond to have it the same.

Lastly mellon....I am really writting all of this to help people and I am sorry it trigered you. I understand when one simplifies things too much they sound like bullshit. Yes each person is different, each trauma is different and I am not a doctor. Thank you for writting your post and pointing out what I fucked up. I am sure I missed like half of it again so please if you feel like it do respond again. I hope sooner or later we all get both therapy and kind words we need to be happy and healthy just like Elrond. Honestly good for him.

I wonder, after the Third Kinslaying, when was the first time Elrond felt truly, actually safe again

I just mean. like. no matter how kindly Maglor treated the twins, ultimately. no matter that there was love, later. from that day on, it's just, Elrond would know, all the way to his core, that he is small and defenseless and people who are bigger and stronger than him can come and tear his life apart and change it at their whim and he can do nothing but go along with it. and then by the time he is old enough to maybe have a shot at fending for himself... by then there's an ongoing war of apocalyptic proportions, that might wipe out even the strongest who still stand if the fortunes change even a bit. and he'd know it. there's nowhere that's really safe and no matter how strong and brave and skilled someone is they can only affect their own happiness and survival a little bit

by the time war of wrath ends it's decades since he last knew true safety, he's known practically all his life that the world is not safe and his life could be shattered to pieces at any moment with very little warning... even when the peace comes you don't just easily shake a lifetime of knowing that all the way to your core

[arinmoss]

Elliott!! :3

[choccy-milky]

insatiable clora and (barely) resisting seb from my latest chap🌡️💕

[yeonjune]

Yeonjun about the strain he felt while preparing for his debut solo project ✙ "GGUM" MAKING FILM

[heartorbit]

the star you've longed for

[m1d-45]

bloodletting

summary: a budding god needs a place to test their new powers, and childe was always a little too eager to lose a fight... a match made in heaven!

word count: 1.7k

-> warnings : minor AQ spoilers ? just like, general gi plot.. fairly graphic depiction of blood + other injuries (might be classed as body horror???). generally obsessive tendencies (childe <--> you). i cannot stress this enough, reader is 110% a sadist.

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

power was not something that came easy. it was fought over, stolen, defended with teeth and claw, tides of blood shed just so one could have power over another. social, physical, financial; no matter the leverage it provided, power was hard won. to give someone power was to admit defeat, a certain death that tartaglia had learned and taught more than his fair share of times. nobody undeserving of power ever held onto it for long; it was an acknowledgement that you were better, that you deserved it, that you’d won. power was a fickle resource that childe would kill to keep, only ever laying down his blade for a precious few.

the tsaritsa, of course. his fellow harbingers, skilled both on and off-field, who themselves could rival the archons. his family, for whom he’d happily give the world.

and naturally, who would be more worthy to hold power than you?

you, not just a god but the, the highest authority across all of teyvat. you bore a hundred names and a thousand monikers, your worship the one thing the world could agree on. granted, nobody could quite agree on how, but that was fine. childe did not need external powers to tell him what to do. he knew, in his deepest heart, that he had gotten it right.

he knew—and, on occasion, flaunted—that he was your favorite. of all the vessels you had chosen, you returned to him time and time again, wishing on his stars until his vision gleamed. his bow shone with power, even his weakest weapon more than enough to push his strength to new heights. part of him wondered what he could do if you’d granted him swords, or a claymore… but that was speculation for another time. didn’t it say something that you had still chosen him at his weakest?

the thought always made him smile. thick in the heat of puppeteered battle, before the sun to after dark, your presence was a constant in his life. at every altar, with every offering, when his hands stung from the rash of leather and his blade was covered in rust, your name a prayer behind blood-soaked teeth. he could not remember a time when his pocket was not weighted with a charm.

his devotion was no secret. he wore your bow with pride, entirely phasing out his other weapons. it didn’t matter that he was technically more controlled with them, for you had chosen this path for him. your word was his guide, a polar star through bitter nights.

he did not doubt when your presence ebbed or flowed. who was he to dictate when or where you spent your attention? no, his faith did not waver. it had no reason to. he waited patiently, going about his regular duties, lingering in snezhnaya for no other reason that he just felt like he had to.

who was he to question to buzzing in the back of his head? who was he to decline when he felt an instinct to leave, to go for a trip far past the city gates? who was he to think himself better than the guiding light that had never led him astray?

for you, he was whatever you needed. and so he went, armed with a thick coat and snowboots, hands shoved deep in the pockets to hide the slight shake. down the main road, an arbitrary turn into an alley and down an abandoned path, into a part of the city he’d never traveled. but a golden thread had tied itself around his heart, pulling without hesitation. he easily hopped over the fence gate, not bothering with hauling it open through the snow. the path beyond was covered in a thick layer of powder, his foot crunching through a foot of it before hitting solid ground. still, he continued.

snezhnayan winters were not warm. they bit and dug into every gap in your clothes, stealing away the precious warmth within. and yet, with his half-done coat and incomplete guard, he was not cold. or, rather, he couldn’t feel it. his hands were pink with frost, stiff at the knuckles, but he couldn’t feel the resistance. his body was not important, not now.

the snow began to thin. it fell from his knees to his shins to his ankles to his toes, until he was face to face with a thick wall of bramble, impossibly overgrown. he was beginning to overheat in his jacket. twin blades made quick work of the wall, and the sight behind it easily dispelled any breath left in his lungs.

the air that washed out of the bubble was thick and heavy, like a humid spring instead of snezhnayan woods. his breath came in short gasps, a shameful wheeze that he hoped was missed beneath the howling snow. he didn’t want you to see him as weak, as someone so easily tired by a short trip to a falling star; he didn’t want you to think of him as anything other than his best.

but you didn’t push him away. you helped him up—his head was buzzing with delusion, he could hardly see, when had he fallen to his knees?—and brushed the snow off his hair, not pushing him away when he leaned into your touch. he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could barely collect himself enough to recognize that he needed to get you inside, away from the wilds.

that was power. to so effortlessly take over every thought in his head, to hold his mind in your hands and pull it into your liking, that was the power he adored you for. gods were figureheads of power, a physical incarnation of their dominion. a god of the entire world would only naturally have power to manipulate that world to their liking. how blessed was he, that he could be the first you made yours.

he was with you when you first stepped into zapolyarny palace, looking around at the chandeliers and fine tile. he opened the door for you to her majesty’s throne room, sucking in a sharp breath as you brushed by. he was by your side when the tsaritsa swore you her fealty, delicately placing the gnoses in your hands.

and oh, how he’d fallen to the floor right then and there, dizzy from the wash of power that rolled off you in waves, an ocean that he willingly dove into. the floor was cool beneath his forehead, his hair sticking to his skin as sweat quickly began to bead. he didn’t bother pushing himself up on his hands, teeth sinking deep into his lip again to control his panting breath. copper bloomed over his tongue, filling his mouth and clogging what remained of his senses.

dimly, he was aware that he was being pathetic, that this would surely change your mind about him. he heard your voice, faint through the fog of his mind, your wisdom lost to his own inadequacy. and yet, despite his weakness, every part of him was tuned into you. he knew it was your hand whispering across his shoulders, he knew it was your influence that stole the breath from his lungs. he knew it was you, because it was always you. you were all he could think of, and now you were finally able to leverage your full power over his self.

he’d woken up in a hospital bed. saline dripped into his arm and the lights pierced his eyes, his head full of snow and iced over. and yet, the moment he was cleared for release, he found himself desperate to be back to your side, racing through the tiled halls of the palace and following the urgent burn in his chest. you would have been right to turn him away, to deem him too weak to stay by your side, but you didn’t. you smiled when he lost his breath and laughed when he wavered, brushing off his concern. you invited him with you—his lungs burned with the need for oxygen—as you twirled the gnoses between your fingers, as if they were toys or paperweights rather than objects of divine power.

divine to him. child’s play to you. a courtyard of snow was cleared in an instant, ripples of pyro melting permafrost while keeping the flora beneath intact, a lazy show of power that pulled little more than a slight hum from you in response.

he wasn’t so much a fool as to think he could teach you everything, or even something, about being divine. and yet he clung to your side like a sailor in a storm, watching as you grew familiar with the elements. he watched, stubborn and weak, as you stopped hesitating.

flowers bloomed as you walked by, crumbling to ash with the slightest look. electro jumped from your skin to his, a painful spark that drew his mind from his head, finally seeing your amused eyes instead of just mindlessly staring. you could—should—have just left him behind, but you didn’t. you instead asked for his help, taking his hand in yours and leading him to a quieter hallway of the palace. you didn’t comment on his thundering pulse despite the fact that you could certainly feel it, tracing a finger along the crease of his palm.

“i wonder…”

a claw of geo cut across his skin, a sharp sting that quickly welled with blood. he barely felt it, watching with detached awe as it filled up his hand, sliding over the edge and dripping to the floor. you didn’t show any emotion, just… watching. his heart beat in his hands, a pool collecting on the floor, and still, you just watched. your other hand moved over the surface, barely an inch away, the blood collecting in a bubble beneath it. with a hum, your fist tightened, pain lighting up his arm. a strained grunt slipped between his teeth, hand flinching closed, brushing against the ball of his blood you had pulled from his veins. his hand was stained red, shaking in your grasp, minutes stretched into hours.

all at once, it dropped, forced back into his body as forcefully as it was removed. with a snap, the skin stitched itself shut, and you were again dragging him along like a child did their favorite toy.

you did that a lot. pull him aside and experiment with whatever new reaction you had discovered that month, week, day, hour, watching his reactions with unabashed delight. and he let you. every time, without fail, he eagerly followed, knowing full well he’d end up rigid with lightning or with ice crystals studding his throat. it was worth it, though. you always fixed him up, squeezing his hand with a whispered ‘good job’ that never failed to make him dizzy.

it didn’t matter what you did to him. it never did. even when his mind was hazy with pain and he couldn’t quite stand on his own, he never regretted it. unconsciousness licked at the edges of his vision, burning black stains that lingered even after you stopped, but he never once hesitated.

if you asked him to jump, he’d ask how high. if you felt like holding him underwater, he’d cherish every bruise. to be kept as a toy was still to be kept.

[ruporas]

only human

[ID: Two page comic in color of Vash and Wolfwood from Trigun Maximum. The first page has a black background and the upper half, behind the panels, is splattered with stylized red blood, scattered bullets, and lifeless hands. In the first panel, it focuses on Vash's boots, showing him stepping through the panel and into the bloody scene. The second panel shows his bloody footprints and the third panel shows his face, his down-turned eyes looking downwards. It's a neutral, vague expression with confliction. At the bottom of the page, the back of Wolfwood's head and shoulder is seen, blood dirtying the white color of his shirt and side of his face. Vash's hand reaches out to him from the right side of the page.

The second page shows the entire scene in full, half the page in light and the other in solid black. At the center, Vash leans down onto his knees as he wraps his arms around Wolfwood's shoulders into a hug. Wolfwood's back is turned away from the viewer, his left arm holds onto his bloodied punisher and his right hand sits on his lap. Light casts from the left side of the page, showing the bloodied surrounding, but the held up punisher casts a shadow on the both of them, shielding them from the light. END ID]

[universeschoir]

You're also here, with me.

[lost-in-fandoms]

This is me, trying to preemptively soothe myself for whatever will be said about Daniel in this incoming race week. This got longer than I was expecting, it's about 3.5k, so it's on ao3 too if you prefer to read it there.

Daniel wakes up to the feeling of Max sliding in bed behind him. He smells like Daniel's body wash and his skin is still warm and damp when he tucks himself close against Daniel's back, knees slotting in behind his.

Still too asleep to find a way to work his voice for a proper hello, all Daniel manages is a sleepy sigh, but Max doesn't seem to want to break the silence either, squeezing the arm he sneaked around Daniel's waist in his own quiet greeting, smushing his face against the sweaty back of Daniel's neck.

The room is still fully dark, a combination of the blackout curtains and the fact that it's still not even dawn, so Daniel is happy to let the sound of Max's breathing pull him back under, until he realises two things.

First, Max is still curled up close behind him, sweat already condensing between them, not rolling away like he usually does, complaining about Daniel's mound of blankets, which piles up especially high when Max isn't there.

And second, Max is supposed to be in England.

Suddenly much more awake, he opens his eyes again, trying to make his sluggish limbs coordinate to allow him to turn around, but Max squeezes him harder, keeping him in place, shaking his head slightly, nose dragging against Daniel's skin.

"Hey," Daniel mumbles, raspy and heavy with sleepy. Max doesn't answer.

"Max," he tries again, feeling more and more awake, as confusion and worry start to mix in his stomach.

Max, stubborn in this like in everything else, doesn't budge. His steady breath is damp on Daniel's nape.

For a moment, Daniel considers the pros and cons of trying to have this conversation now, trying to turn around and make Max answer his questions, but finally he decides this can probably wait for the morning. If this isn't a dream, Max will probably still be there, and it will be easier to figure out what happened between this morning, when Max had facetimed him on his way to the factory, and now, Max tense and too warm in his bed.

So he lets it go, intertwining his fingers with Max's and sighing again, feeling Max's acknowledgment of his momentary retreat in the way his muscles finally uncoil, relaxing against him.

Silence falls again in the room, only broken up by the whirring of Daniel's white noise machine and the buzzing of far away traffic, LA's neverending lullaby, but neither of them falls asleep for a long time.

The next time Daniel wakes up the room is still dark, in that unique way it gets when it's light outside and his blackout curtains are doing their job, and his bed is empty. For a second he wonders if it had just been a dream, a weirdly realistic fantasy conjured from the aching spot in his heart that is missing Max all the time. But he can smell Max's scent on his skin, even hidden underneath his own body wash, and the sheets beside him are still just barely warm.

And when he reaches the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from his eyes and tugging on a hoodie he had picked up from the floor, Max is sitting on a stool, very much not a dream.

"Morning," Daniel greets him, trying to figure out if asking what are you doing here right away is going to get him an answer or an annoyed Max.

He doesn't get the chance to try though, because Max only smiles at him, bright even if pinched at the corners, before pointing at his phone and at the earbuds in his ears.

Almost done he mouths. He pulls a face, exaggerated and ridiculous, but so paper thin Daniel can still perfectly see the annoyance behind it.

Daniel nods, joining him at the counter, sitting on the stool next to him and smiling as Max scoots closer, intertwining their ankles.

He wishes he had grabbed his own phone from the nightstand to keep himself busy, or maybe to order food, since he's not sure on what's in the fridge, but he's feeling too lazy to get back up, so he resorts to laying his head down on the countertop and look up at Max's face.

His mouth is in a hard line as he nods along to whatever they're telling him, distractedly running a hand along his unshaven jaw. He looks tired, and annoyed, and beautiful, and Daniel missed him so much it feels like even sitting like this, close and touching, is not enough to soothe the gnawing pit in his chest.

Max rolls his eyes, then looks down at Daniel and smiles again, reaching over to brush a hand through his hair, the motion smooth and practiced, the same he uses when petting his cats. Daniel fights hard to not close his eyes.

"Yes, change my schedule, email it to me, whatever. I have to go."

Daniel frowns at the snappiness of Max's tone, watches as his expression grows even stormier at whatever he's been told. Something tells him Max was not exactly free to come here.

"Yes, fine. Bye."

If Max had a flip phone, Daniel is pretty sure he would have just snapped it closed. As it is though, he just swipes his finger on the screen and drops his earbuds on the counter, pressing his hands against his eyes with a sigh.

"I'm going to throw out a wild guess, and say you're not a happy bunny this morning," Daniel says, hoping to ease some of the tension from Max's shoulders.

He partially succeeds, as Max does drop his hands, rolling his eyes at him, before laying his head down on the counter too, so that they're staring at each other from the same point of view.

"I am happy to be here," Max says, slow and precise, the way he gets when he's trying to correctly convey his feelings, "but the team is not."

Daniel hums, bumping their knees together. He doesn't really care if the team is happy or not, but he knows being at the receiving end of a scolding like the one Max must have just gotten is not fun.

"They're not very happy with me lately," Max adds a bit ruefully, closing his eyes. His cheek is smushed against the marble, making the bags under his eye disappear a little, the other one much darker in comparison.

"Flew away from many sponsor events then?" Daniel asks, again trying make Max smile. This time it works only halfway, a corner of Max's mouth ticking up, the other kept in place by his cheek and the counter.

"Just a couple. They..." Max stops, a hand coming up to tug at his ear, fiddle with his hair. Daniel wants to grab his fingers, press his mouth against Max's forehead and learn each one of his thoughts like that.

Instead, he has to speak. Boring.

"Why are you here, Maxy?" he asks, because he can't not. He wonders if he should add that he is happy that Max is there, hopes that he doesn't have to, that Max would know anyway.

"I missed you."

Simple, easy, deadly.

Daniel feels his heart do a weird stuttering skip, lungs squeezing, trying to accommodate the surge of love suddenly flooding his chest.

"I missed you too," he chokes out, giving up on resisting the urge and leaning forward, bumping his nose against Max's, their knees knocking together, looking for a kiss.

Max tastes like orange juice, Daniel probably tastes like sleep, and it's awkward because of the uncomfortable position. It's the best thing Daniel has done this whole week.

"They briefed me," Max murmurs, lips still brushing together, sounding like it pains him to speak. A part of Daniel wants to go back to kissing, but he can feel they are now getting to the real reason why Max is there, and doesn't want to stop it.

Not that he doesn't believe Max missed him, Max never lies, never says something sweet if he doesn't mean it, but he knows there must be another reason why he looks like this, instead of just happy to be with Daniel. And even if some part of him knows this will probably not be an easy conversation, he also suspects it's one they need to have.

"On what to say about you."

Daniel jerks back a little before he can really think about it, the words stinging sharply.

He knows it makes sense. He knows he now basically is an ongoing PR disaster for the team, and a part of him enjoys it, but the reminder of it still hurts. And it hurts to think about Max, sitting somewhere across the world, getting told what to say when asked about him.

Max's eyes are open again now, but his expression is carefully blank, just studying whatever Daniel's face is doing, and Daniel suddenly hates it all, pain and rage swelling once again inside him.

He's been doing well, trying his best not to think about it. He's been keeping himself busy, keeping himself with people, refusing to let the feelings dwell and drag him under, but it's unavoidable with Max right there, talking about it.

And something must show on his face, because he sees something flicker under Max's blank expression, and then he's moving back too, out of the space where they were still sharing air, taking his head off the counter with a wince.

For a second, Daniel thinks about staying where he is, neck starting to twinge painfully, and letting Max say whatever he's going to say, probably some kind of apology, then an excuse, and then letting him leave. He thinks about letting Max think that for Daniel it is worse to have him here, painful reminder of everything he's not going to get anymore, than have him gone, aching pit of absence in his stomach. Thinks about where all of that would lead.

He straightens too.

His wince is probably identical to Max's, his neck aching and sore from the awkward position, and he knows that normally it would make Max smile, it would make them both crack a joke about it. But now Max is too busy trying to hide what he's feeling, wanting to calibrate it on whatever Daniel is feeling, to joke about old age or something, and Daniel hates it.

He grabs Max's arm, pretending he doesn't see Max's barely there flinch, pretending it doesn't send a new wave of hurt through him, and leads him out of the kitchen, to the couch. Max follows him quietly, trustingly, not even asking where they're going, what is happening. Daniel hates it.

He lays down on the couch, tugging Max on top of him. A part of him wishes they had done this last night, when they were close and aided by the dark, but he knows that, as much as he doesn't like it, this is probably better. He doesn't want to have this conversation more than once if possible, so it's better this way, something they'll both remember clearly.

Max is still tense on top of him, careful, but he relaxes a little as Daniel winds his arms around his waist, tugging him closer, the familiar weight of him on top of him comforting.

It's only when they're properly settled that he lets out a breath, and he forces himself to face this head on.

"What did they tell you to say?"

He's proud of how steady and neutral his voice sounds, the swirling mess of emotions inside him nowhere to be found.

For a long moment, Max doesn't answer. His hair is barely brushing against Daniel's chin, and he can feel where Max's chest is expanding as he breathes, pressing against him.

"I am not going to do it," Max finally says, voice quiet but sure. "I told them, I am not."

Daniel hums, not even tempted to doubt him.

"What did they say?" he asks again, wanting to know, wanting Max to tell him.

"That you knew." Ouch. "That you were not performing." Ouch. "That this was the best choice for the team, and I am excited to see what Liam can do." Ouch.

He's not surprised Max wouldn't say any of this, he's more surprised the PR team would even try to make him say this, but it still hurts to know that this is how they are going to spin the story.

"Excited, uh?" is all he manages to say, slightly choked.

Max pushes himself up on one elbow, struggling against Daniel's hold on his waist, to glare up at him, eyes steely and fierce and red rimmed.

"I am not going to do it," he repeats, forceful and sincere. "They are wrong and they are stupid, and I am not going to sit and lie and..."

He breaks off, pursing his lips and pressing them firmly together, eyes shiny. Daniel loves him so much it hurts.

"I know I can't tell the truth," Max says slowly with a grimace, voice breaking under all the feelings he's trying to keep at bay, "but I am not going to lie."

Daniel wants to kiss him again. He wants to tug him close and kiss him and get lost in each other and in love until everything outside the door doesn't matter anymore. He wants to push all this away until it isn't hurting either of them.

Instead, he gently pushes Max down on his chest again, one hand on his neck and one on the small of his back, and breathes.

"You told them that?" he asks.

Max's nod drags the fabric of his hoodie against his skin, bunching it up.

"I said, I will be polite and I will say nice things about Liam, and about Yuki and Checo, but I will not say that shit about you. I am not fixing this for them."

Daniel wonders what the Daniel of 10 years ago would have said, if he got told that in 10 years time Max would still be by his side, fiercely on his side.

"Thank you, Maxy," is all he can say, his feelings to messy and big to try and put them into words without spilling them all over the room, making clean up a bitch he doesn't want to deal with today.

Max nods again once, rough and too quick, dislodging the hand Daniel still has on his neck.

"They were not happy," he says, squirming a little until Daniel puts his hand back. "They told me there will be consequences," he snaps, slightly derisive, "so I told them I can do consequences too, and left."

Well, that explains the scolding.

"You left?" Daniel asks, not disbelieving, but still incredulous somehow.

"I didn't want to be there anymore," Max says, as if that explains it all. It probably does, for him.

For Daniel, it's yet another confirmation of which side Max is on. Not that he needed one more, but it's still nice to have. Nice to know that even in something like this, something this big and catastrophic, Max will choose him, over and over. The flood of love is back, and this time Daniel has to tip his head back and breathe, trying not to let it out through his eyes.

"How angry are they?" he asks, when he feels like his voice isn't tangled up in a knot in his throat anymore.

Max shrugs awkwardly, trapped between Daniel's body and Daniel's hands.

"Angry."

It makes Daniel snort despite himself, the sound slightly wet.

"Can't have everything their way, I guess."

He can imagine it, Max storming out of a meeting room, leaving behind a mix of perplexed and angry people, knowing they can't really punish him in any meaningful way that isn't making him do more sponsor events. It's a very satisfying thought.

And then Max takes a breath, pushes himself up on an elbow again, and decides to shift Daniel's world once again.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks. Then, probably because he sees Daniel starting to frown, he adds "not here. The team."

It knocks the breath straight out of Daniel's lungs.

He blinks, unable to process what Max has just said.

"You...what?" he stutters, shifting back a little, trying to look at Max's face better without straining his neck.

He's almost expecting Max to laugh, to take it back, to crack a joke. But Max is deadly serious, the same unshakeable firmness Daniel knows from years of debriefs and arguments on his face.

"I want to win," Max says, not taking his eyes away from Daniel's. "I want to race, and I want to win, for a little while longer. But I don't like what they have been doing, what they did to you. I don't like what the team has become. I don't like what the sport is becoming. So if you want me to leave, if it would help that I leave too, I will leave at the end of the year."

Daniel can't breathe. There's loyalty, and there's Max being loyal, and then there's this. He doesn't know what to do with any of this.

"You can't...I can't ask you to leave." His voice sounds distant to his own ears, so overwhelmed it doesn't even feel his.

"If you want me to, if it would make you hurt knowing I am still racing with them, if it would make you angry, or hate me..."

"I am not going to hate you," Daniel interrupts. He doesn't know many things right know, but he knows that. He's suddenly torn between wanting to tug Max close again and wanting to keep looking at him while they talk about this, and settles on bringing his hand up to Max's cheek, relishing in the way he immediately leans into it.

"I don't want you to stop racing because of me," he says, another thing he's sure of.

"I would, if you asked," Max tells him, easy and steady, as if it's not monumental. Max Verstappen, willing to stop racing, for him.

"I won't."

Max nods, then breaks eye contact, suddenly looking shakier, unsure.

"You can't..." he takes a breath, bottom lip jutting out. Daniel's heart is beating too fast in his chest. "You can't hate me for it. I asked, and you said no, you can't hate me for it, now."

Daniel gives in, pressing Max to his chest again, bending his head to press his lips against his hair.

"I won't," he promises, voice swollen and heavy. "I won't hate you, Max. I won't even be angry at you, not for this. It was never on you."

Something that Daniel hadn't even noticed seems to uncoil between Max's shoulders and he slumps against Daniel's chest with a shuddering sigh, arms coming around Daniel's waist to hold him tighter.

Daniel wonders for how long Max had been carrying the weight of this misplaced guilt, of this fear. Wonders how he hadn't seen it before.

"If you want to leave for you," he carefully says, giving himself time to properly word what he wants to say, thinking about retirement jokes, and about much more serious retirement conversations, "you are free to leave. I will not be angry about that either."

Max shivers as he nods.

"I don't know if I want to," he mumbles, half lost in Daniel's hoodie. His hair is soft against Daniel's lips.

"You don't have to decide right now," Daniel tells him, suddenly and strongly grateful they're having this conversation like this, and not through a phone. Or worse, not having it at all. "I am not going to be your WAG, but I am not going to be angry either."

There's many things Daniel has to work through, to figure out. The past few weeks have been hard, some days spent in bed, too sad and angry and betrayed to feel like getting up, others spent doing things, feeling like all of this is just the start o something better. He is still confused, and a bit lost, but this he knows. Max he knows.

"I love you," he says, because it's the easiest way he has to promise forever without saying it, the word too big for a moment like this.

"I love you too," Max says, easy and unwavering, as if he wasn't shaking in Daniel's arms a few moments ago, as if the words are a steady enough pillar to sustain the weight of the crumbling word around them.

And maybe they are. Maybe they are.

The conversation isn't over, he knows it. What Max has said is too big to just let it go like this, especially if he really is considering retirement. And he wants to know when Max has to go back, what the team has told him, what his punishment for leaving like this will be. But for now, Daniel presses his lips again Max's hair again and breathes out, feeling like they have pushed past something, undone a particularly nasty knot.

And for everything else they have time.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

May I offer you a hastily drawn picture to wish you a good get-through-the-week? :3

HELLO ??????? HELLO hot gluing this to my eyes IMMEDIATELY thank you so much i feel myself becoming stronger already