(this came out of a conversation in the comments on a previous post about an author threatening to stop updating a fic because of lack of engagement)
So there’s this idea that fic writers should write for themselves and not care too much about stats or engagement,
and i totally get the sentiment behind that. if writing becomes entirely about stats and external validation, something important does get lost - creative freedom and joy, conviction in your own writing
but i also think:
“i write for myself, but i post for others.”
because posting fic is not only self-expression. it’s social. ao3 is called an archive, but emotionally it often functions as a community space.
people post for connection, for participation, for others to bear witness to their pain and trauma and grief,
and i don’t think most people are asking to be admired so much as acknowledged. there’s something deeply human about wanting another person to encounter something that mattered to you and go:
“ok, yeah, I see what you were trying to say. I see you.”
especially because fanfic is often people processing very real feelings through fictional characters at a safe distance, one step removed,
and then uploading that deeply personal thing into a shared archive and hoping somebody else might connect with it.
And i think that’s why it hurts so much when you summon up the courage and post a fic into the void and you get nothing back,
I love that four different people on my feed scheduled this joyous person to reblog by 8am on June 1. I look forward to seeing this a dozen more times today.
din djarin isn't loud during sex, but he somehow always makes you feel treasured. ¹⁸⁺
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, soft mando, AFTERCAREEEEE, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, the helmet stays on btw, probably inaccurate lore/technicalities... wc: 862.
masterlist
every time he finishes a bounty, he’ll fly back to nevarro—to search for the comfort of a familiar place, and also you.
always finding you back in one of the bars where he first met you, he’d take you to his cabin to drink—and eventually fucking you through the night, as long as he can.
he never once opened his helmet, which you respect. his T-visor would gleam under the lowlight, head thrown back as he slipped into your warm and soaked cunt, his soft—almost audible grunts muffled but there through the modulator.
you’d grip his armored shoulders as he fucked you missionary—broken gasps flying out of you as his thick and hard cock stretches you out, your legs wrapping around his hips just to feel him closer.
he astonishingly keeps having a way of knowing which angle makes you moan the loudest and, of course, what you need—whether you wanna lie and be a pillow princess, making him do all the work, or even when you’re feeling particularly bold—holding your waist as he guides you to bounce on top of him.
forever prioritizing your pleasure over his.
he was always quiet, though, and it wasn’t because he didn’t enjoy it, not at all. on the contrary, he enjoys it too much—thinks about it too much. purposely finishing his bounties days earlier than the deadlines the new republic gave to him, just so he could fuck you again.
he’s just an… “action speaks louder than words” kinda guy.
that’s why there were no words exchanged as he fucked you hard and deep, only the sounds of the bedframe creaking, his heavy balls slapping against your ass, and the occasional hiss of your name that always made you whimper louder from how scarce it is.
and you never minded, you know how he is.
so you kept clinging onto him, your body shivering as you felt the cold beskar through the thin nightgown you somehow left in his cabin. you moan out his name, how good he makes you feel, and the fact that you can sense how his cock would throb under every compliment you give him.
when the tension snapped, he’d let out a rare groan as you came, squeezing his cock so tight he followed. his white pearly seeds spilling inside you, filling you so deep and full you could feel his stickiness inside your guts—warming you from your insides.
and again, no words. but his aftercare? out of this galaxy.
he’d pull you into his chest the moment you calmed down, those deliciously big arms wrapping you like he’s afraid you’d be gone if he held you too loosely, he’s so gentle with one hand cradling the back of your head and his fingers tangled in your hair, the other running back and forth against your spine underneath your nightgown—all calming you down from the high he just made you experience.
he would bring fresh water, slightly cooled, just like how he remembers you preferring it, tipping the canteen down to your lips ever so carefully. the action helps you drink slowly, hydrating dry lips and a raspy throat from hours of crying out for him.
wrapping a warm cloak around your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ears, before pulling you back onto his lap. lulling you into the comforting warmth as his helmet rests softly against your covered shoulder.
“shhh… take a deep breath,” the first real sentence he said since he’s inside you. his voice still muffled through the modulator, the raspy voice you enjoy listening too much now laced with a certain tenderness he only shows with you.
and you can’t see it, but you feel how his eyes would burn into you. checking your face to see if there’s any hidden pain, making sure you were okay again and again, like once wasn’t enough. or maybe he just loves seeing how pretty you are, even after the amount of roughness he gave.
gone was the skillful mercenary that half of the galaxy was scared of. he was never that with you.
“you good?” he asked softly, fingers moving just to wipe the sweat dripping on your forehead.
you nodded, a soft and weak smile etched on your face from the overwhelming pleasure you experienced and how cherished you felt.
and then he did the impossible. lifting up his helmet just the slightest, so he could kiss your forehead tenderly. his lips are burning your skin with how it lingers, making you freeze.
before you could say anything, he closed it back down. “sleep,” he whispered, fingers now brushing your cheekbones as he carefully lay you down, pulling up a spare fabric and tucking you under it and onto his chest.
“i’ll stay. thank you,” his tone so delicate it hurts, as his arms tightened around you, fingers absentmindedly running along your back before you fall asleep in his embrace.
and he made it happen, the promise of staying, never letting you wake up alone, and would always be there for you, that is, until he has to go, taking down one target at a time.
a/n: the credits rolled in and i immediately thought of this.
when you accidentally back your ass up a little too much into his crotch and he gives your waist a quick squeeze, lowering his lips by your ear as he grumbles out a low “careful”
you're allowed to draw. draw badly even. draw and then delete it. draw and rework it and then delete it anyway. draw only half of it and the other half three years later. in one style or another. in different styles in the same week. traditional or digital. you're literally allowed to draw however you want
idk what neurodivergent young adult needs to hear this but you are NOT supposed to give 100% at your job. I've gotten more promotions and raises since I started giving 40-60%, which my evil CEO uncle informed me is what bosses actually expect when they say 110%. My mental health has improved tremendously. I've spent 2 out of 5 workdays secretly writing my novel for the last 2 years and I've never been more respected and appreciated. Also--when you see glaring wasteful errors in the company's operating systems, say absolutely nothing! Embrace inefficiency. It is your friend in this capitalist hellscape.
When I was a kid, maybe 14 or so (which is, you know, 20+ years ago), I belonged to a Yahoo! mailing list for an anime called Gundam Wing. It was mostly populated by other teens, of varying ages, as it was started by a teen and her friends. Eventually it migrated, when Yahoo! groups started as forums, and even branched off into non-GW related stuff in a second forum.
One of the things I remember the most clearly is the oldest person in the group. Her name was Steelsong. She was a 40-something Dom with a sub whose name we knew even though we knew nothing else. She ran her own fanfic archive because the web was still handmade HTML and navigated in webrings and I’m pretty sure Google didn’t exist or was only barely, barely launched and not well known. She was kind and patient and we loved her. She treated everyone on the group with the respect given any adult, even though most of the rest of the world was still treating us like we were children. Not teenagers even, but children. She never once condescended to any of us, never made our youth a barrier to her respect, never treated us like we were incapable of being full people or like we were less than her because we were young.
I remember that she hosted our fanfiction, as absolutely terrible as it was (and I still have some of it, I am WELL aware of how cringingly terrible it is, just absolute nonsense garbage), right there alongside of other fic that was soul-achingly beautiful. Not a separate section for her friends or for kids, just right there like we were good enough to feature alongside other authors. I never once received crit from her that I didn’t ask for, only support. Only love. I am still writing today partly because Steel was so kind about our fic, fanfic and original.
I remember that when I started doing clay sculpture, she commissioned a tiny pair of dragons from me, to support me doing artwork. She sent a check my mom cashed for me, and my mom helped me mail it when it was finished. It broke in transit, and Steel assured me that she mended it and that it was still beautiful. It was a small gold dragon curled up with a small silver dragon.
I remember that her patience knew no bounds. I remember that she was there for us, regardless of reason. When we wanted to know silly things like what to do with a single AA battery, she answered. When we had serious questions about sex, she answered. When we had questions about writing, she taught us. When one of our group members, a young gay teen in Australia, ended up in the hospital and then stopped making posts, and we all knew what had happened, she let us talk to her about it because we couldn’t go to our own parents, even though we had just lost a friend.
She was not a replacement to my parents, but she was an extra parent, in some ways. A friend, certainly, but someone that had been through more life than we had and was willing to pass on knowledge if we asked for it. Someone older that we trusted with things that were too uncomfortable to go to our parents or teachers or whatever about, because we already knew she wasn’t going to judge us or something, and that we would get an honest answer.
I don’t know why I’m remembering this so hard tonight, and I’m not sure if there’s a point to sharing this, except that I know she’s gone now. She was ill the last time we spoke, and her site went down a long time ago, and I miss her. She was a huge influence on my life, then and now. She was hope, for me, that life as an adult didn’t have to be boring, it wouldn’t have to mean giving up the things I loved and Becoming Only Responsible With No Fun. Her presence meant I had hope I could still write and play with friends even when I wasn’t ‘a kid’ anymore. And she’s gone, and I miss her, and I wanted to share her from the perspective of youth, and the perspective over twenty years later has provided me.
And I think of her, when people go off about older folks being in fandom with younger folks. I’m an older folks now, or at least middle aged folks because there are certainly folks older than me still, but I wasn’t always. I’ve been here since i was a younger folks, and I know how much Steel’s presence and support meant to me, how much she helped not just me but everyone on that group. And I think of the people saying older folks don’t belong in fandom, and that they shouldn’t interact with younger folks at all, and I just think… I can’t agree. I needed that kind of solid presence in my life back then and even at the age I am now, I need the folks older than me to stay. I want them here.
So I guess, like, if you’re here and you’re 40 or 50 or 60 or 70 or 80 or whatever, I want you here in fandom with me, still. Your presence here is a comfort. It is hope. It is a reminder that life will continue to be fun, even as I get older, myself. And if you’re younger and you have this sort of elder in your groups, I hope that they are like Steel. I hope they are kind and patient and supportive, and that knowing them gives you hope for your own future. I hope in twenty years you look back and remember them fondly.
annaxmalina
blakekathryn
stormborns
origamiaround
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2087
