#but something that helped me a lot was the phrase ->

[all3-stxr]

silent hill

the trees stretched up above the horizon, making this town feel all the more suffocating, paired with the thick fog as dazai wandered the forest. the trail felt much longer than he remembered, though he hadn’t been in here in the last three years, so he couldn’t say much, even as he approached a clearing to a well that he was sure wasn’t there before.

a faint red light emits from the bottom of the well, a pretty shade of crimson dancing across the underside of the roof, like the reflection of water. curious, he leaned in to see inside, the red light casting shadows across his face as he gazed downward.

a sudden pain shot through his head and he grimaced, taking a few steps back in hopes that putting space between him and that light would help. “god, it’s like someone’s groping around my skull.” he rubbed his temple, the pain slowly beginning to subside a few seconds later.

he shook his head, eyeing the well one last time before following the trail in the opposite direction. he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that washed over him with every step he took, like if he ventured too far, he’d find something he didn’t want to see.

but he couldn’t let that hold him back. he was determined to find you, and he’d do just about anything to do it.

he paused, looking up at the tall gates leading into a cemetery. could this be the way? he didn’t know.

dazai didn’t know a lot of things since you died. life felt empty, hopeless as he trudged about, going through his job only to come back home to an empty house.

he missed your hugs, those sweet little kisses you’d give him before he went to work and right when he came home. those little visits when he would forget his lunch even though he told you he wasn’t hungry, you’d always come just in case. how you asked what he wanted to eat every day despite him telling you that you didn’t have to cook, that just you being with him was enough.

he missed you.

pushing open the gates, he glanced around aimlessly until his eyes fell upon a figure hunched over before a gravestone, wiping away at the dust in a futile attempt to read its owner's name.

he tentatively reached out a hand, grasping their shoulder. “excuse me. . .”

he was greeted by a sharp gasp, and the stranger quickly stood up, stepping back a few paces. it was a boy with choppy white hair and large, heterochromatic eyes, his face pale and his eyes sunken, like he hadn't slept in a few days. “i’m sorry, i- i was just. . .” he raised his hands swiftly, regaining his composure as he took a deep breath.

“hey, it’s okay,” dazai interjected, “i didn’t mean to scare you.” he took a step back, giving the boy his space. “i’m kind of lost.”

 the boy closed the distance dazai just put between them, his brows furrowing. “lost?”

“yeah, i’m looking for silent hill? is this the right way?”

he gave him a once over, nodding. “um, yeah.” holding a hand up, he pointed off somewhere in the distance. “it’s hard to see with this fog, but there’s only one road. you can’t miss it.”

“thanks.” dazai hummed, turning on his heel to leave.

“but. . .” the boy hesitated, taking an unsure step forward, prompting dazai to turn around. “i think you should stay away. this, uh. . . this town,” he glanced away nervously, as if sensing the other’s confusion. “there’s something wrong with it. and it’s not just the fog either.”

“is it dangerous?”

he fiddled with the ends of his gloves. “maybe. . . it’s kind of hard to explain, but. . .”

dazai waved him off. “i’ll be careful.”

“i’m not lying!” the boy insisted, raising his voice slightly.

“no, i believe you. it’s just. . .” he paused, thinking about how to phrase it right. “i guess i don’t really care if it’s dangerous, or not. i’m going either way.”

“but. . . why?”

“i’m looking for-” he hesitated, his eyes falling to the ground for just a moment. “. . .someone. someone very important to me.”

the stranger’s eyes widened a little. “me too. i’m looking for the headmaster. i mean, my father.” he corrected himself quickly. “it’s been so long since i’ve seen him. i thought the other kids were here, but i can’t find them either.” he looked around, eyes taking in all the gravestones, wondering if they were the ones six feet deep, but he shook his head and turned back over to dazai. “i’m sorry. . . it’s not your problem.”

“no, i. . .” he smiled. “i hope you find them.”

“yeah, you too.” the boy returned the smile, gradually shifting his focus back to the gravestones.

the fog seemed to grow thicker as he approached the town, the trees growing sparse as he followed the road. silent hill was just how he remembered. . . almost.

cafes and shops at every corner - small businesses that you’d never recognize the names of unless you live there - the many houses lined up along the road, and those few streets that if not for the fog, you’d see the other end of town. but something was amiss, something that any one person would recognize almost immediately.

it was dead silent.

though in its name, silent hill was never usually this. . . silent. the population was around 2,000 - people usually walked the streets, and few cars would pass by every now and then. there’d be greetings, gossip - in a small town like this, everyone knows everyone. but there wasn’t a single soul wandering about.

cars littered the streets, both in the middle and parked along the sidewalk, some windows broken and smashed in, tires deflated and paint rusted. it was like everyone just went up and left, leaving the town in complete disarray.

dazai clutched the map in his hand, glancing from side to side as he took in the mess. was this really silent hill?

it sure as hell didn’t feel like it. it’s as if this place died with you. like the moment you breathed your last breath of air, the town did too, and you both fell together.

he shook his head, trying to convince himself of happier thoughts. you were here. you had to be. even if this town had died, that doesn’t mean it took you with it. he’d make sure of it.

who else could’ve written that letter?

[edablair]

Hi!! This is for all my Russian/Slavic bitches ᕙ⁠(͡⁠°⁠‿⁠͡⁠°⁠)⁠ᕗ

(English is not my first language! There may be grammatical or/and punctuation mistakes)

★ Logan finds some of your habits a little... strange.

★ Like the way you sometimes fake spit three times over your left shoulder and knock on something wood three times.

"... and like, if I ever get cancer... ugh." Rolling your eyes, you knock on the wooden table leg, spitting and saying "Не дай Бог". (God forbid)

"What was that for?"

You meet his gaze as he arches an eyebrow in bewilderment, waiting for your clarification.

"Oh, well, you know. It's to make sure nothing bad happens. It's an omen thing."

★ Omens. Yeah, you mention them a lot. Like the time Logan walked past you whistling, and you almost unconsciously barked at him something like, "Не свисти — денег не будет."¹ Or the time he ate a slice of apple off the tip of a knife.

"Не ешь с ножа — злым будешь."²

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Don't mind it. Just a habit." you explained, leaving the poor bewildered Canadian in the kitchen.

★ The only thing worse is your "domovoy". If Logan loses anything, the first thing he'll hear from you is, "Домовой, домовой. Поиграй да отдай."³ And he chuckles, shaking his head. As if some domovoy is gonna help him find the keys he put somewhere... Oh, they there are.

★ If someone drops a spoon? "К гостям." (To guests)⁴ If by chance a dish is broken? "На удачу." (For good luck). If a nasty bird poops on his favorite jacket? Turns out it's a good thing too.⁵

"Are all Russians superstitious, or are you just the way I am?"

"I'm not superstitious."

He's lost for a moment.

"Then what's the point of all this your things?"

"It's always like that. The least superstitious people follow superstitions."

"Yeah, tell me you don't believe in God with all your 'God forbid' stuff."

"I'm an atheist, Logan."

★ You got him. Now he doesn't understand you at all, and you're smiling and giggling, almost like you're mocking him.

(Masterlist)

A little explanation from me!! Yes, more often the most unbelievers and the least superstitious follow superstitions. Why? Because of upbringing. People grow up surrounded by northern relatives, adopt their habits, and then, when they have already formed their worldview, can not get rid of northern habits (I'm like this) ヽ('ω')ﾉ

1) The phrase "Don't whistle - you won't have any money." was often said in Rus' to an idler. Because it was believed that a person busy with work would simply have no time for such silly activities. At some point, people who often whistled began to be called lazy.

2) "Don't eat with a knife, you'll be evil." Like, those who eat from a knife become sharp, jealous and aggressive. There is also a version that a knife "cuts the mind" — by eating with a knife, one can become stupid, lose knowledge.

3) Domovoy — in Slavic peoples home spirit, mythological master and patron of the house, ensuring the normal life of the family, fertility, health of people and animals. Sometimes, when a thing is lost somewhere in the house, they say, "Балуется домовой." (Domovoy is playing around.) And for him to return the thing, they say, "Domovoy, Domovoy. Play with it and give it back."

4) If you dropped a dessert spoon, expect to meet uninvited guests who will come to your house with a small child. And if you let a tablespoon out of your hands, acquaintances, friends or work colleagues will come to your house in the near future.

5) Bird feces on the shoulder is usually considered a symbol of protection from a guardian angel or spirit. It is seen as a sign that you are being watched over and protected from all evil.

[prince-liest]

hi princely! i was rereading through your 666 series and i wanted to ask if you have any tips for writing dialogue? its the one part of fiction ive always struggled with, i.e. making conversations flow naturally instead of sounding robotic. imo one of the most memorable aspects of your work is how real your dialogue feels

(also i was skimming your tumblr while writing this, im so sorry about your car that's genuinely insane??? and sorry if this is terrible timing aaa)

Hello! Thank you, but no worries, not terrible timing - I could use a distraction, haha.

When I started writing fanfiction, I actually really struggled with writing dialogue for a really specific reason, which was that I was really used to RP and felt like getting into the head and talking style of more than one character at a time felt like a lot of effort and something that I had to actively swap back and forth between. This is something that got much, much easier over time, and unfortunately the #1 tip I always have is that practice not only makes the quality of your writing better, but it also makes the process of writing much easier as you get used to things.

That said, specifically for natural-sounding dialogue, I tend to pay a lot of attention to how specific characters talk and try to mimic it. This came particularly naturally for me with Hazbin Hotel because the show is full of bombastic characters with really amazing voice actors and very specific styles of talking. When I write a particular character for the first time, I go back and watch various scenes that feature them, both generally and in different emotional states.

With a form of media like Hazbin, where I actually get to hear the characters speak, it honestly helps to just imagine them doing so in my head when I'm writing with whatever accent they have going on, too. Sound it out in your head: does it sound like something someone might naturally say? Why or why not? Adjust accordingly.

So, that's where I start! I diverge from there over time as my own interpretation of a character grows and changes, or I put them in different circumstances for different stories, so on and so forth. But For pretty much every fandom, it's always been very helpful for me to go back to the source material with the explicit goal of paying attention to characters' styles of speech, turns of phrase, and reactions. This is good not just for dialogue, but for characterization, especially for characters that tend to get pigeonholed into a particular archetype (for example, I frequently have to tone down how prim or "old-timey" Alastor sounds in my dialogue because he doesn't actually talk like that in canon despite the vibe of his reputation (and sometimes I don't bother, LOL)).

Last but not least, thank you very much! I'm really happy that you enjoy my dialogue. It's definitely one of my favorite things to write (if you couldn't tell by how many fics I've written that are basically two characters talking for extended periods of time), so it brings me joy to know that I succeed in making it enjoyable for others as well.

[nossumusstellae]

Reblogging to add:

Hello anonymous :)

Just write. Even if it is cringe, or badly phrased... just write. Let it come out the way it comes out. All dialogue? Don't sweat it! All description? Good for you! Don't worry about getting in all the details in the first go. No writer sits down and creates something perfect right out of the gate. It takes time. And sometimes, a LOT of really bad fanific. (There will be cringe. Trust me.)

Like @nondelphic says, start small! Write just one scene. Flash fiction is a great way to begin. Writing is like pottery: that bowl is not going to look like a bowl the first time you spin it around. Don't be hard on yourself. You'll get there :)

I find putting on some music that relates to what I'm writing can sometimes help. Another tip: write when you're at your most creative. What time of day do these ideas arrive? Morning, night? Write them out then. Building a creative routine can help train your brain to let that perfectionist instinct go.

Wishing you well on your creative journey.

Hello, hope you're doing well and that I'm not bothering you. I know this blog is for relatable writing posts, and I very much do find them relatable (kudos to you), but I was wondering if I could ask for some advice. Why you? IDK, you seem like a nice person, and you do writing stuff, so I figured why not ask? You don't have to respond, but here goes:

Just, how do you get started? I have so many scenes (literally entire dang novels and story arcs) in my head that are quite vivid, I can hear the dialogue, vividly see the scene and map out everything in my head, but the second I try to put it on paper (or google doc), my brain just freezes up and shuts down, partly out of fear of not being able to do good or cringing hard at it. I know people say to just do it and get it out since a bad draft is better than nothing, but, how do you convince your brain to sit down and actually write out the scenes?

I probably kind of just answered my own question, but it would be nice to get some feedback from an internet stranger (technically speaking) who knows this sort of thing. Anyways, I hope you're doing well and that you have a good day/night :)

Do feel free to ignore this though, I don't want to be a bother.

nondelphic writing tips: overcoming the "brain freeze" when starting to write

first off, thank you for reaching out!! i feel you on the vivid mental movies that suddenly go static the second you try to write them down—this is such a common struggle, and you’re definitely not alone (ノ_<、) so here’s the thing: your brain knows what it wants to create, but perfectionism is sneaking in and hitting the brakes. it wants it to be just right before it’s even out of your head, which is a recipe for freeze mode. here are a few tricks to warm up (i hope something helps!!):

✧ start tiny

instead of aiming to write a full scene, jot down one line of dialogue or one tiny detail you see in your mind. sometimes just easing in with a line or two makes the brain relax, like “oh, we’re just dipping our toes in, not jumping into the deep end.”

✧ embrace cringe

if it helps, tell yourself that this draft will be messy, and that’s okay. i call it the “potato draft” stage—ugly but foundational. no one needs to see this stage, so just spill whatever comes. you’re capturing the vibe of your story idea, not the final masterpiece.

✧ trick the brain with “notes”

try writing scenes as if you’re just jotting “notes” or a “sketch” for later. it’s weirdly freeing and convinces your mind that it’s not permanent, making it easier to just get words out.

writing is about building up that “just write” muscle, so even if it feels clunky at first, you’re moving forward, and that’s progress! i hope this helps a bit, and sending good vibes and hugs your way (っ˘ω˘ς )

[somehwere-between]

Time to get a bit #personal on here because why not. But it’s in the tags so I don’t blow out my brains later

[puppyeared]

who up seeing their disorder in a fictional character but feel like its not their place to put a name on it

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[waywardsalt]

was going through my blog trying to track down an old post i made talking abt my feelings on jolene and it was. much longer than i remembered it being. and haha yeah i still agree with it. i need to fucking. sort out my feelings on that character and that subplot

[crypt1dcorv1dae]

My mom has always had a habit of unofficially "adopting" any wayward young people in her life, like if any of us (her kids) had friends who were in any way IN NEED OF PARENTING she would be like "anyone gonna give this child love and support?" And not wait for an answer.

She would probably do the same for my Internet Friends if they ever met her lol. Like fair warning to all friends if we ever meet IRL my mom WILL try to adopt you, be careful

[curiosityschild]

LITANY AGAINST THE FEAR OF OTHERS OPINIONS

Do it scared. Do it weird. Do it alone.

LITANY AGAINST PARALYZING PERFECTIONISM

Do it bad. Do it wrong. Do it half-assed.

LITANY AGAINST ?????

A third trio??? A trio of threes would be nice but I can't think of any more

[yo9urt]

more good news on the japanese learning journey...last night while playing y4kuza k1wami 2 i was idly listening to the ingame convo (side content thing) while looking at something else and only periodically looking at the screen and this character said a sentence and i understood the whole thing myself without having to look at the translation!!!

(granted it was 3 words long and ive forgotten what it was but still. very exciting moment)

[thoughts-and-all-that]

as awful as i know it is, a lot of the time internally ill be like 'kys' about people i dont like, and theres a lot of people, but at the very least i dont actually say that out loud. like theres a lot of people on tumblr that talk about my trigger a lot because for some fucking reason its a common topic BUT IT SHOULDNT BE. and i go. wow pls die. but i dont actually send them an ask or reblog their stuff with that. i just think it at them very aggressively. anyway i just wanted to confess that because i dont really like that i do that, but it feels better than being like. wow that hurt me, i should move on. like, yeah it did hurt me, and i should move on, but also it feels good to internally say FUCK YOU when i feel hurt

[autistichalsin]

In retrospect, four years later, I feel like the Isabel Fall incident was just the biggest ignored cautionary tale modern fandom spaces have ever had. Yes, it wasn't limited to fandom, it was also a professional author/booktok type argument, but it had a lot of crossover.

Stop me if you've heard this one before: a writer, whether fan or pro, publishes a work. If one were to judge a book by its cover, something we are all taught in Kindergarten shouldn't happen but has a way of occurring regardless, one might find that there was something that seemed deeply problematic about this work. Maybe the title or summary alluded to something Wrong happening, or maybe the tags indicated there was problematic kinks or relationships. And that meant the story was Bad. So, a group of people takes to the Twittersphere to inform everyone who will listen why the work, and therefore the author, are Bad. The author, receiving an avalanche of abuse and harassment, deactivates their account, and checks into a mental health facility for monitoring for suicidal ideation. They never return to their writing space, and the harassers get a slap on the wrist (if that- usually they get praise and high-fives all around) and start waiting for their next victim to transgress.

Sounds awful familiar, doesn't it?

Isabel Fall's case, though, was even more extreme for many reasons. See, she made the terrible mistake of using a transphobic meme as the genesis to actually explore issues of gender identity.

More specifically, she used the phrase "I sexually identify as an attack helicopter" to examine how marginalized identities, when they become more accepted, become nothing more than a tool for the military-industrial complex to rebrand itself as a more personable and inclusive atrocity; a chance to pursue praise for bombing brown children while being progressive, because queer people, too, can help blow up brown children now! It also contained an examination of identity and how queerness is intrinsic to a person, etc.

But... well, if harassers ever bothered to read the things they critique, we wouldn't be here, would we? So instead, they called Isabel a transphobic monster for the title alone, even starting a misinformation campaign to claim she was, in fact, a cis male nazi using a fake identity to psyop the queer community.

A few days later, after days of horrific abuse and harassment, Isabel requested that Clarkesworld magazine pull the story. She checked in to a psych ward with suicidal thoughts. That wasn't all, though; the harassment was so bad that she was forced to out herself as trans to defend against the claims.

Only... we know this type of person, the fandom harassers, don't we? You know where this is going. Outing herself did nothing to stop the harassment. No one was willing to read the book, much less examine how her sexuality and gender might have influenced her when writing it.

So some time later, Isabel deleted her social media. She is still alive, but "Isabel Fall" is not- because the harassment was so bad that Isabel detransitioned/closeted herself, too traumatized to continue living her authentic life.

Supposed trans allies were so outraged at a fictional portrayal of transness, written by a trans woman, that they harassed a real life trans woman into detransitioning.

It's heartbreakingly familiar, isn't it? Many of us in fandom communities have been in Isabel's shoes, even if the outcome wasn't so extreme (or in some cases, when it truly was). Most especially, many of us, as marginalized writers speaking from our own experiences in some way, have found that others did not enjoy our framework for examining these things, and hurt us, members of those identities, in defense of "the community" as a nebulous undefined entity.

There's a quote that was posted in a news writeup about the whole saga that was published a year after the fact. The quote is:

The delineation between paranoid and reparative readings originated in 1995, with influential critic Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. A paranoid reading focuses on what’s wrong or problematic about a work of art. A reparative reading seeks out what might be nourishing or healing in a work of art, even if the work is flawed. Importantly, a reparative reading also tends to consider what might be nourishing or healing in a work of art for someone who isn’t the reader. This kind of nuance gets completely worn away on Twitter, home of paranoid readings. “[You might tweet], ‘Well, they didn’t discuss X, Y, or Z, so that’s bad!’ Or, ‘They didn’t’ — in this case — ‘discuss transness in a way that felt like what I feel about transness, therefore it is bad.’ That flattens everything into this very individual, very hostile way of reading,” Mandelo says. “Part of reparative reading is trying to think about how a story cannot do everything. Nothing can do everything. If you’re reading every text, fiction, or criticism looking for it to tick a bunch of boxes — like if it represents X, Y, and Z appropriately to my definitions of appropriate, and if it’s missing any of those things, it’s not good — you’re not really seeing the close focus that it has on something else.”

A paranoid reading describes perfectly what fandom culture has become in the modern times. It is why "proship", once simply a word for common sense "don't engage with what you don't like, and don't harass people who create it either" philosophies, has become the boogeyman of fandom, a bad and dangerous word. The days of reparative readings, where you would look for things you enjoyed, are all but dead. Fiction is rarely a chance to feel joy; it's an excuse to get angry, to vitriolically attack those different from oneself while surrounded with those who are the same as oneself. It's an excuse to form in-groups and out-groups that must necessarily be in a constant state of conflict, lest it come across like This side is accepting That side's faults. In other words, fandom has become the exact sort of space as the nonfandom spaces it used to seek to define itself against.

It's not about joy. It's not about resonance with plot or characters. It's about hate. It's about finding fault. If they can't find any in the story, they will, rest assured, create it by instigating fan wars- dividing fandom into factions and mercilessly attacking the other.

And that's if they even went so far as to read the work they're critiquing. The ones they don't bother to read, as you saw above, fare even worse. If an AO3 writer tagged an abuser/victim ship, it's bad, it's fetishism, even if the story is about how the victim escapes. If a trans writer uses the title "I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter" to find a framework to dissect rainbow-washing the military-industrial complex, it's unforgivable. It's a cesspool of kneejerk reactions, moralizing discomfort, treating good/evil as dichotomous categories that can never be escaped, and using that complex as an excuse to heap harassment on people who "deserve it." Because once you are Bad, there is no action against you that is too Bad for you to deserve.

Isabel Fall's story follows this so step-by-step that it's like a textbook case study on modern fandom behavior.

Isabel Fall wrote a short story with an inflammatory title, with a genesis in transphobic mockery, in the hopes of turning it into a genuine treatise on the intersection of gender and sexuality and the military-industrial complex. But because audiences are unprepared for the idea of inflammatory rhetoric as a tool to force discomfort to then force deeper introspection... they zeroed in on the discomfort. "I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter"- the title phrase, not the work- made them uncomfortable. We no longer teach people how to handle discomfort; we live in a world of euphemism and glossing over, a world where people can't even type out the words "kill" and rape", instead substituting "unalive" and "grape." We don't deal with uncomfortable feelings anymore; we censor them, we transform them, we sanitize them. When you are unable to process discomfort, when you are never given self-soothing tools, your only possible conclusion is that anything Uncomfortable must be Bad, and the creator must either be censored too, or attacked into conformity so that you never again experience the horrors of being Uncomfortable.

So the masses took to Twitter, outraged. They were Uncomfortable, and that de facto meant that they had been Wronged. Because the content was related to trans identity issues, that became the accusation; it was transphobic, inherently. It couldn't be a critique of bigger and more fluid systems than gender identity alone; it was a slight against trans people. And no amount of explanations would change their minds now, because they had already been aggrieved and made to feel Uncomfortable.

Isabel Fall was now a Bad Person, and we all know what fandom spaces do to Bad People. Bad People, because they are Bad, will always be deserving of suicide bait and namecalling and threatening. Once a person is Bad, there is no way to ever become Good again. Not by refuting the accusations (because the accusations are now self-evident facts; "there is a callout thread against them" is its own tautological proof that wrongdoing has happened regardless of the veracity of the claims in the callout) and not by apologizing and changing, because if you apologize and admit you did the Bad thing, you are still Bad, and no matter what you do in future, you were once Bad and that needs to be brought up every time you are mentioned. If you are bad, you can NEVER be more than what you were at your worst (in their definition) moment. Your are now ontologically evil, and there is no action taken against you that can be immoral.

So Isabel was doomed, naturally. It didn't matter that she outed herself to explain that she personally had lived the experience of a trans woman and could speak with authority on the atrocity of rainbow-washing the military industrial complex as a proaganda tool to capture progressives. None of it mattered. She had written a work with an Uncomfortable phrase for a title, the readers were Uncomfortable, and someone had to pay for it.

And that's the key; pay for it. Punishment. Revenge. It's never about correcting behavior. Restorative justice is not in this group's vocabulary. You will, incidentally, never find one of these folks have a stance against the death penalty; if you did Bad as a verb, you are Bad as an intrinsic, inescapable adjective, and what can you do to incorrigible people but kill them to save the Normal people? This is the same principle, on a smaller scale, that underscores their fandom activities; if a Bad fan writes Bad fiction, they are a Bad person, and their fandom persona needs to die to save Normal fans the pain of feeling Uncomfortable.

And that's what happened to Isabel Fall. The person who wrote the short story is very much alive, but the pseudonym of Isabel Fall, the identity, the lived experiences coming together in concert with imagination to form a speculative work to critique deeply problematic sociopolitical structures? That is dead. Isabel Fall will never write again, even if by some miracle the person who once used the name does. Even if she ever decides to restart her transition, she will be permanently scarred by this experience, and will never again be able to share her experience with us as a way to grow our own empathy and challenge our understanding of the world. In spirit, but not body, fandom spaces murdered Isabel Fall.

And that's... fandom, anymore. That's just what is done, routinely and without question, to Bad people. Good people are Good, so they don't make mistakes, and they never go too far when dealing with Bad people. And Bad people, well, they should have thought before they did something Bad which made them Bad people.

Isabel Fall's harassment happened in early 2020, before quarantine started, but it was in so many ways a final chance for fandom to hit the breaks. A chance for fandom to think collectively about what it wanted to be, who it wanted to be for and how it wanted to do it. And fandom looked at this and said, "more, please." It continues to harass marginalized people, especially fans of color and queen fans, into suffering mental breakdowns. With gusto.

Any ideas of reparative reading is dead. Fandom runs solely on paranoid readings. And so too is restorative justice gone for fandom transgressions, real or imagined. It is now solely about punitive, vigilante justice. It's a concerted campaign to make sure oddballs conform or die (in spirit, but sometimes even physically given how often mentally ill individuals are pushed into committing suicide).

It's a deeply toxic environment and I'm sad to say that Isabel Fall's story was, in retrospect, a sort of event horizon for the fandom. The gravitational pull of these harassment campaigns is entirely too strong now and there is no escaping it. I'm sorry, I hate to say something so bleak, but thinking the last few days about the state of fandom (not just my current one but also others I watch from the outside), I just don't think we can ever go back to peaceful "for joy" engagement, not when so many people are determined to use it as an outlet for lateral aggression against other people.

[medicinemane]

It's amazing how much having the roofer who put my roof in and have a direct monetary incentive to finding something wrong with my roof telling me it's fine other than some bruising lets me calm my anxiety about the rain

I'm still worried about whatever's causing the water to leak around that pipe (only when it rains so... I wouldn't think it's plumbing related), but... I can put that one aside if I know it's not a problem with the roof

It's just amazing though what solid information can do

[yanderenightmare]

part one

TW: nsfw, dubcon, blackmail

fem reader

As promised, you receive the pictures in the mail while the payment is forwarded almost emmidiatly. You don’t know which makes you gawk more, the photos of you or the numbers.

You also get an email—an invitation. The photographer is asking you to dinner. Or, asking is putting it nicely—which he most certainly didn’t. It’s phrased like a notice from your boss—matter-of-factly, he’s picking you up at eight, wear something nice.

You think about declining, but then you think about your friend again and how you don’t want to cause her any trouble. A free dinner isn’t really all that bad, is it?

It’s worse, actually.

“You should have told me you didn’t have anything to wear. I would have lent you something,” is the first thing he says when you get in his car. He hadn’t opened the door for you or anything, just sat in the driver’s seat waiting.

And though your cheeks burn with embarrassment, you think you’re foolish for it. You hadn't really dressed to impress him, after all—something you might as well tell him, “Maybe I just didn’t feel like dressing up. You didn’t exactly leave a good impression last time we met, so I don’t believe I owe you anything.”

He scoffs with a grin—face turned towards the road as he starts driving. “You have a lot more bite without your friend.”

“She has too much respect for you.” You cross your arms and look out the window. 

“That’s for sure.” You hear him chuckle, but he doesn’t offer any more of a response. You’re glad to spend the rest of the drive in silence.

You feel underdressed at the restaurant. You hadn’t thought he’d take you somewhere so nice. Most of the other couples there are dressed as if for a gala, while you’re dressed as if you’re going to an office party.

He hasn’t tried too hard himself. But still, he fits in—fat watch on his wrist, kempt hair, neat shoes, dress trousers, and a silk shirt with one too many buttons undone—a nauseating skinny chain beneath the collar as well as the hint of a chest tattoo. You bet it’s one of those dumb tribal inks, probably with some mundane Japanese characters he doesn’t know the meaning of.

“Is this where you undermine all the models desperate for your recognition?” you sigh as you sit down.

“We haven't even gotten our menus, and you’re already causing a scene?” 

He’s the one who was rude the moment you got in the car. In fact, he was rude the minute you met him. “Might as well speed this along.”

He chuckles—his smile genuinely amused instead of angered the way you’d imagined—the way you’d remembered from last time when he sent girls crying. “You know, for a face like that, you have one hell of a tongue.”

He orders wine by the name with ease and swiftness before returning to what he was saying.

“I like that. Most models are dull, but not you.”

“I don’t agree. And I’m a model,” you snip, showing no interest in his flirting.

 “No? Didn’t you see the pictures?” Your attitude doesn’t seem to deter him—rather, it only seems to egg him further on. “I have them all mounted on my walls at home—you should come see.”

This makes you falter. Looking at him from across the table with rounded eyes. “On your walls?”

“Framed.” He smiles, finally having broken through—he only intends to take it further. Not that what he was saying wasn’t true. “I just couldn’t help myself. I consider it my best work.” 

The look on your face is something between disgusted and uncertain—speechless in a sense.

It makes him laugh again. “Does anything flatter you?”

The wine comes. He’s poured a glass for testing.

“Not when spoken by men like you.”

His grin grows as he swirls the liquid around, smelling it like a phony.

“That’s a shame,” he says before taking a sip. He nods to the waiter, and you’re poured a similar glass. Meanwhile, he looks at you. “I’d like to flatter you—I’d like to spoil you even. You seem like you deserve it.”

You sip your glass. “No need.”

“I’m not so sure about that. You currently work at a diner, right?”

You gaze at him from atop your glass, brows furrowing. “How do you—”

“I didn’t.” It’s a lie, of course, he’d searched you up and gone over every little detail he could find. “It’s clear from the looks of you—”

“Fuck you,” you snap, putting your glass down a bit too harshly, enough to make a little wine slip and spill.

He doesn’t mind it. “Oh, I want you to,” he says instead. “After I pay for dinner and drive you back. We can fuck right under my favorite portrait of you.”

You’re stunted by his crude words, but only for a second. “How about we skip dinner, and you go fuck yourself.” 

His smile doesn’t drop, even as you get up to leave. “Settle down, sweetheart.”

“Make me, jackass.” 

You’re on your way to go, but his next words have you halting. 

“Either you humor me, or I make sure your friend never models in the country again.”

You turn around to look at him. You don’t really know why you’re so surprised. The card he just pulled is the very reason you agreed to the dinner in the first place. But an incentive is very different from outright blackmail, and suppose you just hadn’t really believed he’d take it that far.

“It’s my impression you don’t want that,” he continues.

You sit back down. He tops your glass off.

“I could make her big, you know?” he offers while pouring for himself as well. “Really speed her career along—set her up for life. I’ll do the same for you, too, of course.” 

He swirls his wine, lifting it as if to make a toast.

“And all you gotta do is come back home with me.”

You don’t have the words.

“You won’t be disappointed,” he promises. “I’m good at it.” As if that’s your concern. “You’ll never want to fuck anyone else again.”

You hate how right he is. 

You’ve never cum sooner or harder before in your life, not with anyone else or on your own. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced—so good, you’re screaming—moaning out in echoes throughout his giant penthouse, bouncing off the marble floors into all unlocked rooms, creating a cacophony of your undeniable pleasure.

He’s on his knees beneath you as you lean with your back against the window overlooking the city, barely able to stand as he buries his face between your soft thighs, canting his chin up while lapping hard at your slit and clit. His hard stare set on your face and the way you throw your head back while cumming in his mouth—your hand tussled in his hair, yanking on it hard enough to make him growl.

Your legs and feet give you little support. It's his hands that keep you up as you slide further and further down the floor-to-ceiling window until you’re almost about ready to drop your weight completely.

But he’s made you come undone three times by then, and just can’t wait any longer. 

He’s spun you around before you know it, making you face the pretty lights of the city skyline—his mouth hot on the shell of your ear, ��I told you so, didn’t I?”

Your breath fogs the glass with your panting—knees wobbly, only standing thanks to the thick arms he’s got supporting you, each with a tit in their hand, giving them rough squeezes as he starts pounding away at your womb—hard enough to make the city lights blend in with the stars. 

“You won’t wanna fuck anyone else again.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Aizawa, Shinso, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Naoya, Toji ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Kageyama, Iwaizumi, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin ♡ AOT – Levi ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[cherrysnax]

sorry for talkin sm