#the thing that my fundamental read on sharpe (and consequently much of my fic) is that the most important part is Cheeky Bants with the Lad

[chiropteracupola]

ladyhawke (foth or sharpe)??? 👀👀👀

EXCITING DOUBLE BIRD EVENT! and here we get the fun time of describing the Difference between the sharpe and foth ladyhawke stories, and also why the sharpe one has been so much easier to write.

so the film Ladyhawke, in which both these stories are based, is about a curse placed on a pair of semi-star-crossed lovers, involving day-night animal transformations that don't overlap with the other half of the duo. but a lot of Ladyhawke's humor and charm proves to come from the fact that it's told from an outside perspective — a silly fellow with a penchant for theft, prison breaks, and general mischief. and thus, it's a much smoother journey to allow the Chosen Men to scamper about low-fantasy vaguely-medievalpunk au-Spain...

“We ain’t deserters,” said Cooper, offended, and set his jaw. “We was on a mission.” “It wasn’t really a mission, you know that perfectly well,” interrupted Harris, shoving his way forward. “But it was important we found the Major! …more important than that fool’s job we were s’posed to be working on, anyway,” admitted Cooper, refusing to show any fault on his part. Sharpe stared at him in mixed confusion and dismay, and Harris determined that he’d speak his piece more fully this time. “Well, you see, it was that you up and vanished, and so we figured that we ought to go and find you.” “And it’d be helpful, wouldn’t it, if we did!” put in Perkins. “We didn’t mean to be gone long,” said Hagman, the only one out of the four of them to display even a smidgen of guilt. “And we wouldn’t have been, if he hadn’t—“ “—if you hadn’t broken into the—“ “—well, you’re the one who—“ “—you and your damned rum—“ “…and that’s how we went and got ourselves arrested,” finished Harris, as if Sharpe had been able to determine the slightest through-line of truth in the cacophony of conflicting stories. “But we got out again, as you see.” The four Chosen Men, the last remnants of Richard Sharpe’s final command, looked at their officer proudly, quite as if they expected to be congratulated for their unexcused jaunt off from the army and their trip in through one side of a prison and out the other.

...than to take that whole journey through the soggy and sorrowful perspectives of Keith 'frequently is a cat against his will' Windham and Ewen 'really would not like to be an eagle anymore' Cameron...

The next day dawns misty and damp, a clinging curtain of fog folding itself around the two travelers. The sick, dizzy feeling that comes with transformation takes far longer to leave than is typical, and so he remains prone beneath the overhang of rock as his cramped muscles slowly ease. He had cared little for where he fell as the morning’s shift took him off his feet, sprawling to lie on his side with one hand fallen in the now-cold ashes of the previous night’s fire. Despite the scrap of shelter provided by the outcropping of stone, the thick wetness of the air has already seeped into Keith’s hair and clothes, and as a tendril of wind brushes across his back, he finds himself shivering enough to set his already-strained body to aching. “If this is summer, Ardroy…” he mutters, knowing that his words will be neither finished nor heard. The mere suggestion he has put forth inspires a wholly new fear in him — where shall each of them be come winter, and will the curse still bind them together when the seasons have made their turn? Keith laughs cheerlessly, stretches out a hand to feel the rain against his palm. Damn this country, damn this war, damn whatever fate had been cruel-handed enough to serve him so poorly…. Catching his words close again, he stops himself before he can finish. One thing at least, he cannot curse, and that is Ewen Cameron.

...so yeah! you see the tonal shift between these two.

#em writes stuff #em is posting about sharpe #heronposting #original flavor ladyhawke is red-tailed hawk and wolf but I've opted for a little difference in these while keeping the bird/ground predato #dichotomy... golden eagle (ewen) and wildcat (keith) and then kestrel (teresa) and carpathian lynx (sharpe) #the thing that my fundamental read on sharpe (and consequently much of my fic) is that the most important part is Cheeky Bants with the Lad #and if you are not doing that then really where is the fun? #and you know that I am here for the fun after all! #also a fun note on the sharpe-ladyhawke setting is that it is 'discworld-like fantasy' - sort of ambiguous time and tech! #they do have guns (which are less a thing in discworld) but it's still a fun aesthetical mix-around even so! #foth-ladyhawke setting is just. regular foth but there are witches in the military now. and it sucks for all involved.

[saintshigaraki]

ONE DAY WE’LL REVEAL THE TRUTH (THAT ONE WILL DIE BEFORE HE GETS THERE)

title: youth by daughter

pairing: dabi x f!reader 

words: 1.7k

excerpt: But what is rage, you’d ask him, if not one of the many faces of grief? 

a/n: dabi my beloved (derogatory). this fic is my love letter to parentheses.

tags: angst, toxic relationships, explicit s*xual content, light choking, dabi is a bastard but he is a needy bastard 

in case you’d rather read it on ao3!

MDNI

He’s just outside the door. He hasn’t made a sound, but you know he’s there. You can feel it; in your blood, in your bones, in your marrow. 

(You’ve always been able to feel him, monstrous and cruel beneath your skin. An itch. An awful taunting itch. You’ve wanted him out since he first stuck his claws in you and buried himself deep, but he’s near impossible to shake. He won’t leave until he’s hollowed you out, until your flesh is no longer your own, until all that’s left of you is him. Until all that’s there, is what he believes there should be. 

He’s a self-important bastard like that.)

When he finally decides to open the door, he does so with a slam. It would’ve made you jump if you hadn’t been so focused on the skyline. Tracing the buildings, looking for stars you know you won’t be able to see. They get swallowed up, this deep in the city. Drowned out by light. 

(When you were a child, you didn’t quite understand how stars could vanish in the night. Weren’t they the brightest things in the universe? Burning and brilliant, even light years away? 

You understand it better now. How mankind has this nasty habit of ruining, of polluting, of blotting out things of wonder and then desperately trying to remake it in our own image.

It’s never as beautiful as what was, but it’s far too late for us to admit defeat now.)

He’s mad, burning up with fury. You can feel the heat of it, cutting straight through the heavy chill of the night air. It’s stifling, your balcony so small that he’s practically breathing down your neck with how close he is. Accompanying his presence, always, is the faint smell of burnt flesh he can never quite mask, no matter the amount of cheap aftershave he tries to drown himself in. 

He’d texted you, and you’d ignored him. For a week, you’ve ignored him and if there’s one thing Dabi hates, it’s when he gets ignored. 

He’s the one that ignores you, it should never be the other way around. 

You know that, of course. You know all his little unwritten rules. 

(Don’t ignore him is at the top of the list. Except, of course, during those nights when he thinks you’re asleep and he clings to you like a child, his tears burning where they touch your skin. Even his grief, you can’t help but think, is scorching.

On those nights, you’ve found it’s best to stay quiet. He wields his grief like rage and you’d rather not be caught in the crossfire.)

He’s waiting for you to talk, to stumble over your words, make some sort of vague attempt at an apology. It’s what you would usually do after you’ve broken one of his rules. 

But you say nothing, content to sit in the too-heavy silence. You’re tired. Of him. Of whatever it is you two have been doing. It’s the same stupid story, the same vicious cycle. A snake cursed to eat its own tail. 

He’s using you. He has been for a long while now. If you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, he most likely has been since the beginning. And God, it’s exhausting work, being used. 

Although, really, you’re not all that much better than he is. In the beginning, you were with him purely because he fascinated you. All his grief laid bare, and so vulnerable. So obvious and painful. Undeniable in its brutality. 

(Rage, he’d say, it’s righteous rage, not grief.

But what is rage, you’d ask him, if not one of the many faces of grief?) 

It didn’t take long for you to realize he’s chasing something. And it took you even less time to realize that whatever he’s after, is probably going to kill him one day. 

(You wonder if he knows he’s chasing his own death. You wonder if he’d care at all. 

He reminds you of Eve, eating the forbidden fruit. You think she’d take a bite of the apple, again and again and again if ever given the choice, even knowing the consequences. Even with intimate knowledge of the suffering to come. How could she not? How could any of us hold our fate in the palm of our hands and choose not to sink our teeth into it?)

He’s growing impatient beside you, burning up with it. If he touched you, you’re sure he’d melt your flesh straight to the hollow bone. 

But you don’t break. Just once, you want him to fall apart first. Just once, you want him desperate. 

(He’s always been so good at making you desperate, with a hand around your neck, just tight enough to leave you gasping for air, your back to his chest and his staples drawing blood, as he pounds into you so hard all you could do is dig your nails into his arm. 

His lips are right by your ear, you’re mine, he says. You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine. 

And God, with his cock hitting all the right spots in your cunt you’d believe it. You’d believe anything he’d said to you as long he just kept going. 

Say it, he hisses, say you’re mine. 

You don’t answer him right away, mostly because you can’t, not with the way he’s fucking you. You can’t catch your breath enough to form a sound, you can’t get your bearings enough to collect a single thought that isn’t Dabi Dabi Dabi. 

Annoyed at your lack of answer, he brings a searing thumb down to your overstimulated clit. You keen, arching, desperately trying to get away from the sensation that at this point is more pain than pleasure. 

Say it, he says again, there’s a strange sort of edge to it. Looking back you think it might’ve been desperation. Say it. 

When he presses down just a little harder, you finally crack. 

Yours, you gasp. I’m yours. Yours. Yours. Yours. 

He laughs, so deep in his chest that you feel it in your own. 

It echoes in your head for weeks afterward.)

“What,” he grounds out, low and furious, “the fuck.” 

It’s not a question. 

You turn towards him, at last. Though you can hardly see him, surrounded by shadows. There are glints of his piercings in the polluted light, a gleaming flash as he runs his tongue along with his teeth. But it’s his eyes that you lock on. Bright and a brilliant blue. Glowing and monstrous in the dark. 

(You’re reminded, once again, of the stars. Burning and burning and burning.)

With no preamble, you say, “I think I love you.” 

The air around you quiets. Like the city itself is holding it’s breath. 

It’s not a sweet confession under the moonlight. In the week since you came to the realization, it’s already started to fester, to rot straight through your bones. 

It’s a curse more than anything. You love a man whose chasing his own death. You love a ghost. Or, you suppose, a ghost in the making. 

Before you can say anything else (though really, what else is there to say) he cuts in sharply, meanly, “No, you don’t.” 

You can’t help but tilt your head at that. You don’t really know what to say. You don’t know if you’re supposed to say anything. His lips are pulled back, teeth bared, he’s gleaming and sharp, pulled so taught with tension you wonder how he’s even breathing. He reminds you, vividly, of a cornered animal. A scared one. Though he’s trying to mask it with annoyance, with a type of anger that toes the line of fury. 

He’s always doing that. Masking his fear with rage. Masking his grief with rage. Hiding any part of himself that might be perceived as weak, as soft, as vulnerable, under the guise of rage. 

You can’t imagine that it’s anything less than exhausting. 

Though you have to admit, you didn’t expect this response. You didn’t expect fear. You thought he’d be unbearably smug about it. Proud of himself for finally sinking his teeth into your heart. Ready to chew you up and spit you back out. You were ready for him to move on. 

You didn’t expect him to deny it. 

(He could be right, though you doubt he is.

You wonder what it means to love, you wonder how you’re supposed to love. You wonder if you can only love someone if you’ve seen the cruelest parts of them first. 

You suppose if that’s the case, then he might be right. 

You’ve never actually been able to force yourself to look up what exactly he’s wanted for. What exactly it is he’s done. 

Mostly because you’re afraid that even if you knew every last gory detail, it wouldn’t be enough to make you walk away. And how would you be able to look at yourself in the mirror, after that? Knowing exactly who you let share your bed? who cried scorching hot tears into your shoulder? 

Ignorance is bliss, they say. In your case, it could very well be your only hope for salvation.

But, you don’t really think there’s a set way a person is supposed to love. It’s what makes it so terrifying. It’s an unknown. And it’s so hard to not fear the unknown.)

“Dabi-” you start. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he spits out. Eyes flashing, his hands stuffed in his pockets. 

You want to laugh at the absurdity of it all, of him trying to tell you what you do and do not feel, but you think he’d turn you to ashes for the slight. His pride has always been so easily shaken.  

“Dabi-” you try again. 

But he’s two steps ahead of you. He always is. 

He’s already turned around, hiding his face from view, opening the door. And you don’t stop him. You don’t see why you should. 

You can’t shake him from the path he’s on. You don’t think anyone can, really. 

Grief is all he has, it’s all he’s let himself have. It’s fundamental to him now. It’s all he is. And you’re sure he believes whatever he’s chasing is going to fill the hollow void it’s made of him. 

It won’t. You’re sure of that, at least, because even if he does succeed, what will he be left with then? 

You don’t say any of that to him, because you’re not his fucking therapist. And because you’re not so sure he wouldn’t kill you for it. 

It’s anticlimactic, watching him disappear into your darkened apartment. 

But all you can think about when you hear the click of the front door closing behind him is how honest his fear was, almost childlike. Remnants of a poor, grief-stricken boy. 

What a monster it’s made of him. 

a/n part two:

thinking about adrianne kalfopoulou’s ‘grief will keep you reaching back / for what is not there.’ 

i could not tell you why this took me over two weeks to write. i had a lot of fun with it though. dabi my beloved. go to therapy please. also i know dabi can’t cry but....let me have this.

#bnha x reader #dabi x reader #bnha smut #dabi smut #bnha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #dabi imagine #bnha x you #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #bnha x y/n #bnha imagine #vicwrites #vicwritesbnha #vic.thirsts

[drivingsideways]

k-drama rec list

Prior to 2020 I’d maybe watched 2 k-dramas in my entire life, but this year I got sucked in, thanks to some great recs, and y’know, *gestures * everything.  

I think I’d held off watching kdramas because my impression of them was limited to romances that I didn’t enjoy at all. But this was the year I discovered the equivalent of “gen fic” kdrama- dramas that had wonderful ensemble casts, strong story lines that weren’t entirely romance focused and also a variety in terms of themes and styles. A big plus was that I found so many of these dramas had women leading the writers’ room, and seeing the effect of that in the story telling. (Notable exceptions: a certain “star” writer who should please stop inflicting her badly written, formulaic crap on the world, yes Kim Eun-Sook, I mean you, and whoever wrote that trashfire Flower of Evil)

So here I am with my own rec list! Caveat- these are mostly not the dramas released in 2020, I’m still playing catch up! :)

Under the cut for length

My Mister/ My Ahjussi  (2018, Written by Park Hae-Young, Directed by Kim Won-Seok, starring Lee Sun-kyun and Lee Ji-eun aka IU) 

This was definitely my absolute favourite of the shows I watched this year across western/ asian media. It’s a story about the thread that binds us all and the ineffability of human connection. It’s also a story that deconstructs ideas of masculinity and honour and shame in a non-western context, but with an extremely compassionate touch.  It’s a story that doesn’t shy away from showing the consequences of material and spiritual poverty; and how one can so easily feed into the other. It’s a love story that isn’t a romance, except that it’s a Romance. It’s about finding salvation in one another and in the kindness of strangers.  It’s about choosing life, and picking yourself up off the floor to take that one last step and then the next and then the next. The one quibble I have with the series is that it could have been better paced, it does get extremely slow after the half way mark. But god, do they land the ending. Both Lee Sun-kyun and IU turn in absolutely heartbreaking performances, and fair warning, be prepared to go through an entire box of tissues watching this series. 

Life  (2018,  written by Lee Soo-yeon  and directed by Hong Jong-chan, starring Lee Dong-wook, Cho Seung-woo, Won Jin-ah, Lee Kyu-hyung, Yoo Jae-myung and Moon So-ri.)

Medical dramas are very much not my thing, and I wouldn’t have taken a chance on it except that @michyeosseo said I should, and she was right! It’s a medical drama in the sense that it’s set in a hospital, but rather than a “case-fic” format, this is actually a sharp commentary on the corporatization of health care, and the business of mixing, well, money and what should be a fundamental human right. Writer Lee Soo-yeon was coming off the global success of Stranger/Secret Forest S1 when this aired, so I understand that expectations were probably sky-high, and people were disappointed when this show didn’t give them the adrenaline rush that they wanted. On the other hand, I thought that this outing was really much more nuanced in terms of the politics and also how the ending doesn’t allow you the luxury of easy-fixes. This show has a great ensemble cast, and while it took me a while to get used to Lee Dong-wook’s woodenness (i ended up calling him mr.cadaver after watching this and was surprised to learn that he’s very popular?), in the end I was quite sold on his version of angry angst-bucket elder-sibling Dr.Ye Jin-woo. His best scenes were with Lee Kyu-hyung who turns in a lovely, achy performance as the paraplegic Dr. Ye Seon-woo who just wants to live a normal life. The love story between the two brothers is actually the emotional backbone of the story, and I think they landed that perfectly. 

My one quibble with writer-nim is that she ended up writing in a forgettable and somewhat (for me at least) uncomfortable romance between the characters played by Won Jin-ah and Cho Seung-Woo. I think part of my uncomfortable-feeling was that I got the strong sense that the writer herself didn’t want to write this romance, it was as if she was being made to shoe-horn it in for Studio Reasons, and she basically grit her teeth and did the worst possible job of it.  I do wish we could have absolutely had the OT3 of my dreams: Moon So-ri/Cho Seung-woo/Yoo Jae-myung like, c’mon TV gods MAKE IT HAPPEN, just...look at them!!!! 

Anyway, that apart, I think this was a very engaging series, and by engaging, I also mean thirst-enabling, see below. 

 Stranger (aka Secret Forest  or Forest of Secrets) S1 & 2 : (2017-, Written by Lee Soo-yeon, directed by 

2017′s smash hit aired a much anticipated second season in 2020, and I managed to catch up just in time to watch that live, so that was thrilling :D . Writer Lee Soo-yeon  mixes up thriller/office comedy/political commentary in an ambitious series. I think S1 is more “exciting” than S2 in terms of the mystery and pacing,  but S2 is far more dense and interesting in terms of political commentary because it takes a long hard look at institutional corruption and in true writer-nim fashion doesn’t prescribe any easy solutions. Anyway, please enjoy public prosecutor Cho Seung-woo and police officer Bae Doona as partners/soulmates kicking ass and taking names in pursuit of Truth, Justice and just a goddamn peaceful meal, along with a stunningly competent ensemble cast. Also yes, Han Yeo Jin is a lesbian, sorry, I don’t make the rules. 

Search: WWW  (2019, Written by Kwon Do-Eun, directed by Jung Ji-hyun & Kwon Young-il, starring  Im Soo-jung, Lee Da-hee, Jeon Hye-jin)

GOD. Where do I start? +1000 for writer Kwon Do-Eun saying “fuck the patriarchy” in the most grandiose way possible, i.e. absolutely refusing to acknowledge that it exists. Yes, this is that power fantasy, and it’s also a fun, slice-of-life  tale about three women navigating their way through work, romance, national politics and everything in between. It’s true that I wasn’t entirely sold on the amount of time spent on the romance, and I really wish they’d actually had a textual wlw romance, though the subtext through the entire series is PRACTICALLY TEXT. But still, it maintains that veneer of plausible deniability and I think queer fans who are sick of that kind of treatment in media have a very valid grouse against the show. On the other hand, personally I felt that the queer-platonic vibe of the show is very wonderful and true to real life, and it was only reinforced by the ending. This is a show written by a woman for women (like me), and it shows. 

Hyena  (2020, Written by Kim Roo-Ri, directed by Jang Tae-yoo & Lee Chang Woo, starring  Kim Hye-soo and Ju Ji-hoon )

Those of you who’ve been watching hit zombie epic Kingdom are probably familiar with Ju Ji-hoon’s brand of sexiness already. I had not watched Kingdom and got hit in the face by Mr.Sexy McSexyPants’ turn as a brash, privileged-by-birth, up and coming lawyer who gets completely runover by the smoking hot and incredibly dangerous fellow lawyer/competitor from the other side of the tracks in the person of Kim Hye-Soo. When I say they set the room on fire, I mean it, ok. Every single scene between these two is an actual bonfire of sexual attraction and emotional hand grenades, and they’re both absolutely riveting to watch. “Flower of Evil” wishes they had what this show has- an actual grown up romance as opposed to a thirteen year old twilight fan’s idea of an adult romance. 

The “lawyer” shenanigans and the “cases” are hit or miss, and I think the occasional comedy fell flat for me. But that’s not why I mainlined like 6 episodes of this series overnight like a coke addict, and that’s not why you’re going to do it either. It’s so RARE, even in these enlightened days to find a female character like Jung Geum-ja: hard as nails, unapologetic about it, and not punished by the narrative for it. The best part for me is that she feels like a woman’s woman, not a man’s idea of what a Strong Female Character should be. Anyways, when I grow up I want to have what Kim Hye-soo has ok?

Other dramas that I watched this year, quickly rated:

The King: Eternal Monarch (3/10 and those 3 points are only for the combined goodness of second leads who deserved better- Jung Eun Chae, Woo Do Hwan and Kim Kyung Nam. Please head over to my AO3 and read my attempts to fix this garbage fire and rescue their characters from canon)

Flower of Evil (-10/100, dont @ me)

Tale of the Nine Tailed (5/10, I think it succeeds at what it set out to do, which is a light hearted, sweet fantasy-romance-melodrama, plus “second lead” Kim Beom will make you cry as the hot mess of a half human/ half fox spirit ALL TEARS character. I think if you’re into kdrama romances as a genre, this is probably a good bet?)

Signal  (7/10,  This was the first full kdrama I watched this year and would definitely recommend. It’s a police procedural with time travel shenanigans and has an engaging plot, good pacing, texture and compelling performances. My one disappointment with it was the way they wrote Kim Hye-soo’s character. As literally the only female character to survive in any way, she was given short shrift, and toward the end it really began to grate on me.)

Six Flying Dragons - (7/10, also would recommend if you’re interested in Korean historicals. It definitely already feels a bit dated in terms of styling and production values, and even scripting and acting choices. But it has a good balance of fantasy and history and political commentary. I was not a fan of Yoo In-Ah’s performance in this series, but it’s not anything that would make you want to nope out of the series. It’s GoT , if GoT was thoughtful about politics and characters and not the misogynist, racist trashfire that it became.)

My Country: The New Age - (3.5/10, and that’s 3 points to Jang Hyuk’s fan and 0.5.points to Woo Do Hwan’s heaving bosom. If you like your historical drama/fantasy with very pretty men, very gay subtext -seriously RIP to show makers who thought they could hetero it but didn’t account for Woo Do Hwan’s Tragic Face- lots of blood and tears and very nonsense plot, this is right up your alley. I probably would have enjoyed it more in other circumstances, I think? But this one just annoyed me too much at the time! 

I have a couple of more dramas to watch on my list, that’ll probably carry me over into 2021, so see ya on the other side! :D

#k-drama #kdrama rec list #2020: A YEAR #i'm a queue for you

[fireflysummers]

Just Fiction (and When It’s Not)

I’ve been tying myself in mental knots for the last while about the “It’s Just Fiction” argument. At this point I’ve heard a lot from both sides that’s actually pretty valid, leading to a lot of general confusion. 

The conclusion that I’ve come to, though, is that “It’s Just Fiction” is not a universal defense, and its meaning shifts drastically when it’s shifted out of the originally intended lens.

I propose that there are three lenses through which the “It’s Just Fiction” argument can be viewed: in-universe, authorial intent, and public interpretation.

Before jumping into the analysis, I should note that there are a few assumptions here:

The fiction in question is actually fiction, and does not resemble any real life persons, living or dead in an identifiable capacity. Therefore, things like the Ted Bundy Case Files are immediately disqualified.

We are assuming innocence until proven guilty.

The In-Universe Lens

The “It’s Just Fiction” defense is most often applied to in-universe logic, and is related to the suspension of disbelief--the mechanism by which we can ignore our comparisons to the real world and immerse ourselves in a fantasy.

When you say "It's Just Fiction" about in-universe logic, it understands very clearly that fiction is fake, and that the characters and events do not exist in the real world. It may echo real life, and real people might to replicate it, but no matter how dark or gross or fluffy or fantastical the content, no matter how gritty and “realistic” it is, it is not real. 

Arguing that "It’s Just Fiction" is basically stating that you understand how to separate reality from fantasy, and treat characters and in-canon logic as the mechanisms by which an interesting story is told. While they may feel real, especially if you have a special connection with them, they fundamentally are not. 

As a result, content creators are generally allowed to use it as space to explore taboo topics and search for relationships and meaning in places that no sane person would enact in real life. 

However, this is not free reign to create whatever you want, and expect no consequences, as we will get to in our next point.

Authorial Intent

As stated earlier, the general assumption here is that the content creator did not intentionally have ill will towards anybody. Unfortunately, there have been too many case where this has proven to be bad faith. As a result, how to approach this aspect of the “It’s Just Fiction” argument is very difficult and controversial, because sometimes it is very difficult to “prove,” especially since the creative process is often multi-faceted as content creators draw from multiple inspirational and motivational sources. 

Oftentimes, content creators are young, ignorant, and lacking self-awareness. This leads to them not knowing how to take critique, especially if they are approached in a harsh, critical manner, and generally only alienates them in a way that stifles their desire to learn and grow naturally. It is generally not your job to educate strangers on the internet, either, since there are often trolls who disguise actual ill intent as ignorance.

The most surefire way to address this is to curate your own internet experience by blocking liberally those whose content you do not wish to see.

There is another case, though, that needs to be discussed: that of predatory content creators. These people usually straddle the line between “a distasteful lack of mindfulness” and “preying on vulnerable populations.” 

Accusations of ped/o/phil/ia against any individual are serious, and in process you have to consider a personal history of predatory behavior, rather than applying a blanket "if it's dark and taboo topics, then it automatically implicates the author as a pervert.”

You can usually identify these individuals based on the content’s tone and approach--that they aren't approaching a taboo topic for the sake of literary exploration, but because they are self-inserting themselves. There are heavy implications about people who  self-insert into that sort of fiction, such as people who write or draw cartoon character CP, and you can usually tell on a case-by-case basis whether or not somebody is hiding a gross perversion behind "It’s Just Fiction.”

Public Interpretation

Public interpretation is usually where the “It’s Just Fiction” argument breaks down entirely, because we are no longer working directly with the work (in-universe) or the people immediately responsible for its creation (authorial intent). Public reactions are very, very real and need to be treated as such--but first, you have to consider the likelihood that a work of fiction will actually contribute to swaying that public.

The argument here is “even if the person didn’t mean any harm, that doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t be held responsible.” And this is another tough one, because on one hand, yes, content creators ideally should exercise mindfulness about how their work will be received and interpreted. On the other hand, the public is beyond the control of any single individual, and things can easily be taken out of context or snowball out of their control, regardless of their intent. 

So, for the sake of this particular case, we have determined that the author did not mean to cause harm, the next question is how much harm is being done. 

In other words, who exactly is the public, and how many of them are there?

For instance, a bunch of kids filming a shitty monster movie featuring sharks may have the exact same messages as Jaws (sharks are evil and need to be killed). Neither one of them intend to do real sharks any harm; however, the one that needs to be held responsible is Jaws, not the shitty indie film. 

Why? Because Jaws was a box-office success that became a cultural phenomenon. It impacted the opinions of the millions of people, leading to a sharp increase of shark hunting. 

Yeah, the indie film was equally bad in the messages it was conveying, but it just fades into obscurity without actually doing any harm. 

It’s the same spiel with fandom works. Because fandoms are insular spaces, they feel a lot bigger than they actually are. That’s why fan-content creators are not held to the same standards as mainstream content creators, because the public they actually affect is actually quite small. 

When people say “It’s Just Fiction” in relation to content that is not intended to do harm, but is controversial in content, what they’re really saying is “fandom is a small, in-bred pocket of the internet, and and because it is not written by somebody intending to cause harm and will never likely see the public eye, the damage that it does is negligible, and any energy that you put into causing an outcry over it is merely a petty waste of time.”

At which point, again, the best course of action is to just block what you don’t want to see.

Applications

This is a long read, and the basic point is to exercise your own critical thinking skills. My general rubric for what I keep versus what I block is:

Is the content actually fictional.

Is the content creator acting out of a desire to hurt others?

If the harm is unintentional, how many people are affected, and how wide-spread is the damage? 

Let’s Practice

Case 1

Person A is obsessed with a villainous character from an anime.

They know that the character is completely made up.

They have no desire to hurt other people, since this affection for a fictional character is literally just them. Their actions do not pose a threat to vulnerable groups. 

The number of people even directly aware of Person A’s special interest is pretty small, and if you’re squicked out by it they’re an easy block.

Therefore, by this rubric, “It’s Just Fiction” works just fine as an explanation for their actions.

Case 2

Person B’s fanfic reduces your favorite character to LGBT+ stereotypes. The tone of the fic, though, is fluffy and light-hearted.

Again, this is entirely fictional and all parties know it.

It’s difficult to gauge whether this was done intentionally or not; sometimes a quick chat with the author will clear things up; otherwise, the tone of the fic and the lack of mean spirit in any of their other works, so it’s probably unintentional. It’s probably safe to give the benefit of the doubt.

The general readership on the fic and the number of kudos is pretty low, which means that it’s not getting much attention anyways. It was distasteful, it made you feel gross when you read it, but overall the damage is pretty contained.

Therefore, by this rubric, “It’s Just Fiction” still generally works, because of the limited number of people even aware of the fic’s existence.

Case 3

Person C made an AU with characters aged-up from the canon, and there are some N/S/F/W scenes or jokes!

AU = fictional

This is a tricky one sometimes, because there are absolutely people who age up characters just to “legally” draw them in N/S/F/W situations. 

However, there is a difference between people who do that, and others who say, project out an entire timeline full of unique character interactions and are looking to explore the various aspects of adult life, which sometimes involves consensual sex. The authorial intent here is usually pretty easy to pick up on, because a well thought-out aged-up AU often takes a lot of mindfulness on the part of the creator.

Again, things limited to fandom spaces are by default pretty small in the public that they reach. 

“It’s Just Fiction” absolutely applies here because of the amount of work that has been put into it to create an adult version of the world and characters, and it’s clear that the intent was not to expose minors for the entertainment of perverts.

tl;dr: If you’re going to treat fandom with academic scrutiny, please apply critical thinking to situations as they come. “It’s Just Fiction” does not work as a general statement because it wasn’t originally meant to be a general statement.

#long post #fandom wank #text #idk man #i'm tired

[burberrycanary]

💻✏️

💻- three works of yours that are must reads

I Leave This at Your Ear (Riverdale, Bughead)

What kind of fall looks worse than it is, he wonders.

Of my stories, I think this one best achieves what I wanted to convey, from visuals to mood to the range of emotions. It’s also one of my most characteristic in terms of having what’s said be important—but what’s left unsaid be essential. And that aching, wistful mood might as well be my signature.

Like Gold to Airy Thinness Beat (A Discovery of Witches, Bishmont) 

She reaches out with her unscarred hand until the backs of her fingers press against his leg and feels Matthew’s gaze settle on her like the first soft accumulation of snowfall.

Sex-with-feels is something I end up writing pretty often whatever I originally set out to do ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Here the sex focuses on some gentle objectification of Matthew—”her hands slide from his waist up, over the sweeping arc of his ribcage” and “she bends forward to kiss along the sharp line of his collarbone out to the curve of his shoulder”—and, really, can you blame me? And the feels focus on Diana dealing with the after-effects of being tortured and of learning that she’s been spellbound.

(This was also a story that I fundamentally rewrote about four times during the editing process, to the point where it wasn’t even the same story anymore—and I may still go back and re-edit it one more time to trim some material I should have cut, but got too attached to.)

Truthfully, Once If Strangers (Chasing Liberty, Ben/Anna)

She steps out of the crowd to stop at the edge of the sidewalk just as he glances her way and she catches the flicker of his there-and-gone smile, the one that she missed noticing for so long because his expression hardly changes.

This is my sentimental pick as the story that I most enjoyed writing over years of writing fic—despite knowing that it absolutely didn’t need to exist and that there was no audience for it since Chasing Liberty doesn’t have a fandom and never did. But mainlining the early aughts nostalgia and dewy angelic mid-twenties Matthew Goode (along with the micro-expressions we all know and love) with the right partner in crime was totally worth it. I regret nothing! This fic keeps the bright, breezy tone of the film but gives the characters a fix-it that takes the consequences of being lied to within a relationship seriously.

(And I dare you to imagine a mournful acoustic version of I Believe in A Thing Called Love played by a mediocre British busker. I dare you.)

✏️- favorite part about writing

My favorite part of writing is getting struck with an idea so forcefully I can’t not write. And I find something magical in how just a few words can capture a mood or set a whole scene visually or convey such complex emotions. That inspiring idea gets encoded for transmission to readers using so little—a handful of sentences that aren’t even overtly about the underlying conception—in the most marvelous way. I suppose that’s why feedback from readers means so much: it’s confirmation that the message got through.

Thanks for the asks!

Send me a writer’s ask → 

#soylent-greene #on writing #asks #i leave this at your ear #like gold to airy thinness beat #truthfully once if strangers

[gurguliare]

im not th eoriginal anon but, wrt anything that burns, which is one o my favourite fics ever, i think one of the things that sticks in my mind most of all is the moral ambiguity of everything jane does around roxy, but particularly the first time they have sex, when things seem to get especially disturbing. theres other stuff id like ot ask about tbut this is no.1

Sure thing—I’m not going to go line-by-line for the whole scene, but I’ll try to get down some thoughts.

They end up spread out across the bare table, Jane on her back for the second time that evening and Roxy, leaning over her, circling not her throat but her boob. This wasn’t premeditated, Jane wants to say, but she’s less than convincing even to herself.

Something I tried to communicate about Jane was that she has a sincerely limited understanding of boundaries or consent. That means she has a troubled relationship to her own agency, as well as that of others’, which is why she here misinterprets her burgeoning crush as like… malice aforethought. It’s—well, it’s maybe a little wrong to be attracted to Roxy, under the circumstances, but being attracted to Roxy and deciding to take the plunge and have sex with Roxy are significantly different things. Equating the two here is a self-serving sleight of hand. Superficially it means taking on an excess of responsibility (not only for the act, but for everything leading up to it); implicitly it’s a way of shrugging off responsibility, asserting that she has no more control over this than she does over her feelings of attraction.

“I have to bake on here,” she says eventually, instead. “Let's—we should move.”

Roxy lifts her face from Jane’s neck and stares at her muzzily. “Oh,” she says, confused, “sorry, sure.”

I wouldn’t call the morality here ambiguous, per se, although I’m not about to get on your case for describing it that way, given that this fic takes an equally dire tone about Jane taking advantage of her brainwashed bodyguard and Jane doing laundry. The ambiguity is in Roxy’s response and her motives for initiating, or at least that was my thinking when I wrote it, although I now feel that if this story has a strength it’s that Roxy pretty clearly deludes herself about how much control she has over A Bad Situation, and does so without much conviction. I would not write it in the same way now, but I like those moments when Roxy is preoccupied, because at least it gestures to some kind of life for her beyond calculating around Jane’s reactions. But … yeah. The thing with this fic is I thought I had to be super meticulous about confining the narration to Jane’s perspective and not letting the reader past Jane’s blinkers, and it’s like, sure, that’s an effect, but this is also a story with two characters in it. So that’s not great. I hope I’ve gotten better at this sort of thing over time, I’ve definitely written stuff to a similar premise that I felt had more realistic intrusions from the Outer World onto unreliable narrator’s oppressive frame, but it’s an issue I still struggle with.

[…]

“You can’t hurt me,” she says aloud, her chin close to Roxy’s shoulder. Her breath disturbs the fall of Roxy’s curls, blowing them back from her chokelet. Roxy licks her ear and says, “Nope,” her palm flat on Jane’s sternum and a little wet from Jane’s tongue. “Is that important?” Jane doesn’t know how to answer. It occurs to her that she trusts Crockercorp technology more than people, that she trusts Roxy because of company endorsement, that when Roxy saved her life she felt abandoned rather than salvaged, because she had come so close to death after a period of long respite. There’s a hole in the plaster of the wall above them where a knife buried itself three years ago, and had to be wrenched out by a drone, its blunt-ended other arm braced against the desk and leaving a ring like a coffee mug might, only described in crushed wood rather than water damage. “Yes,” says Jane, licking her lips, and kisses the taut side of Roxy’s neck.

More misdirection. Jane is traumatized from a combination of the assassination attempts and the stifling anti-assassin measures, but she misdiagnoses the primary source of the trauma, which is not the danger but the powerlessness. The actual reason Roxy is exciting is because she’s supposed to bear the consequences for Jane while Jane does the acting, whereas before it was always, “everything around me acts and I sit here and cower.” 

[…] She shuts her eyes; there are cracks in the dark.

“Fuck!” Roxy hisses.

By the time Jane blinks away the last etching of brightness, she’s sitting back on her haunches and clutching at her throat. Jane’s legs slip off her shoulders. Jane feels slow, stupid, wrung-out, but: “It didn’t hurt,” she protests, and Roxy looks at her with deep incredulity.

“What?”

Jane glares. “The chewtoying, goshdarnit,” she says. “It felt—”

But she also doesn’t “want” to hurt Roxy—fundamentally she’s a kid and likes Roxy and, in a very shallow but intent way, wants Roxy to be “okay” without having to do anything about it personally. And she also can’t really believe that she does have the power to hurt Roxy, or affect the world around her—and especially doesn’t believe that she could affect the world around her without noticing, since her whole stewing malaise is premised on the idea that if she for one second got her own shot at Intervening, she would immediately know, and it would change everything.

“It did hurt,” interrupts Roxy, impatient as if it were day, and they were doing anything else. Her breathing is slowing, now, no longer the sharp short exhales of an animal in pain. “You just didn’t know it was an attack because I have mad skillz. Believe me, it hurt.”

This shit is so fucking lazy. I realize I’m a bit Freudenberg (2001) ragging on Freudenberg (1993), but man, the world does not need more dehumanizing comparisons applied to abuse victims. It’s all the crueler since Roxy in the fic is ~ambiguously brown~, although I flipflopped on that while writing and actually left in some inconsistent pieces of description when it was published, because even at the time I was aware that replicating those dynamics soured my Iddy Noncon—witness my nuanced thoughts on writing race, and, for that matter, noncon. I’m not sure what to add. I hadn’t reread this story in a couple of years, and reading it now made me wonder whether I should take it down, revise it, or add some kind of caveat emptor. I’ll think a bit.

#Anonymous #no one expects the fannish inquisition #tw noncon #sorry this ended up pretty negative but i appreciate you requesting the scene since it called my attention to something i should #...probably have addressed a lot earlier... #sighs.

[fraink5-writes]

Human Qualification- Chapter 1

June 13

Merry Christmas! This fic is a gift to @leio13​ for always supporting and encouraging me. Without you, I wouldn’t have made it this far. Thank you.

Additionally, a huge thank you to @missmizpah for beta-reading! You rock even if you don’t like commas!

Summary:  To slowly lose all your functions until you are nothing but a trapped mind in a deteriorated shell, that’s what it means to be ‘No Longer Human.’

This fic can also be found on ao3 here. Without further ado, please enjoy!

“I’ve always wanted to die anyway.”

Unable to move, Dazai lay helpless on the ground, watching the death surrounding him. Chuuya glared impatiently as he threw another body to the ground. Blood ran down his arm—was it his or his enemies? Ultimately, he said nothing to Dazai, sparing him only one last indignant look. It was impressive how easily Chuuya moved through the horde of adversaries despite his wounds. His body, so fluid and swift, was a paintbrush, splashing rufescent color across the landscape. If nothing else—even when his own body gave up—Dazai was certain he could depend on Chuuya’s strength.

This mission was supposed to be a quick one. It was an ordinary—no, an exceptionally easy mission. They were to infiltrate a business on the black market and grab a memory stick with information “critical to the Mafia’s functioning,” which Dazai suspected was dirt on other members of the underground. While Dazai scoffed at Mori’s over-evaluation of the information, he could fundamentally understand its merit. After all, he was essentially raised by the scheming head of the Port Mafia.

Another thought that Dazai and Mori shared was that the current mission would be a simple one. There were only 20 or so opponents, and Mori had given permission for Dazai and Chuuya to eliminate all of them. On an okay day, this was an easy task for the infamous Double Black. With a simple strategy and their combined strength and abilities, the enemies didn’t stand even a slight chance—to hint at a possibility of their victory would be cruel to them. That day should have been no different.

Yet it was.

Dazai’s body had betrayed him. Even when completing the most basic tasks, his body weighted down uselessly. Dazai’s arms were weaker, compounding the burden. This was not a sudden development. In fact, Dazai had noted it at the beginning of the month, but he paid it minimal attention. He had managed just fine, minus a bit of fatigue here and there. And so, that afternoon, when devising his plans, he chose to ignore it. But his expectations deluded him. When the fighting began, it became immediately apparent that his weakened body was not cut out for confrontation.

Watching Chuuya polish off the last of his opponents, millions of different plans and potential outcomes flashed through Dazai’s mind, but he wasn’t optimistic enough to challenge the flow of events (which just happened to be favorable due to Chuuya’s intervention). Instead he resigned himself to his failure and his fatigue, letting his mind vacillate between fuzzy shades of gray and black.

“Oi!” The sharp tone knocked Dazai from his haze. Menacing teeth, piercing blue eyes, an asymmetrical mop of orangey hair, bloody wounds decorating his body—the man towering over Dazai was certainly Chuuya. “Get the fuck up!” He barked. He turned away, presumably repulsed by the sight of Dazai’s weakness.

With one hand on either side of his body, Dazai pressed on the ground, but it didn’t budge, nor did his body. Pathetically, he rolled over onto his side with a soft groan. He couldn’t the number of injuries he had. In his daze, they were dull—practically non-existent—but as he struggled in the dirt, they woke up, sparking pain throughout his limbs. Once again he pushed; this time, he managed to raise himself to a sitting position. He could barely keep his head afloat on his shoulders; lifting the rest of his body was unthinkable.

Tapping his foot into the ground, Chuuya eventually condescended to look at Dazai, his pointed glare dulling with weariness. He sighed and threw his head back as if looking for a higher power to spare him of his burden. But no relief ever came, so Chuuya bent down and lifted Dazai from the ground. Harshly throwing his partner over his shoulder, the silent message he sent Dazai swore of revenge. Too exhausted to pay the warning any heed, Dazai lazily dropped his head on Chuuya’s shoulder, provoking a groan in response (which Dazai also ignored).

Silently, the two patients dredged down the streets, Dazai like a zombie in his half-asleep state. He wondered thoughtlessly about how the two of them appeared—weary, draped over each other, blood dripping—luckily it was late enough that there weren’t many people on the streets. Chuuya didn’t say a word, but a muted irritation radiated from his body. Much to Dazai’s relief, the redhead’s exhaustion prevented him from raising a grand objection. However, Chuuya’s fatigue paled in comparison to Dazai’s, who wasn’t even aware of (nor cared about) his own whereabouts until he was right outside his own apartment door.

Dazai couldn’t even react before Chuuya pulled out his keys and unlocked the door. It was a miserable side effect of their partnership. He dragged Dazai to his living room couch and negligently ditched him there. “I’m going to use some of your bandages since you hoard them.” With that, Chuuya casually wandered into Dazai’s bathroom—another thing which would have bothered Dazai, had he been in his right mind. Upon his partner’s return, Dazai was still lying on the couch exactly the way Chuuya left him. Chuuya shrugged, perhaps disappointed, and continued to the exit. At the door, however, he hesitated. He inspected Dazai’s lifeless form for an extensive period of time before sighing, “What is with you today?”

“I can’t move,” Dazai half murmured into the couch.

“Haha,” Chuuya laughed dryly, but his stare grew increasingly more worried. Finally, he trudged towards Dazai and helped him from the couch and into the bathroom. “Only this once… because we’re partners.”

Dazai smiled weakly. If he was feeling up to his usual self, it would have been a teasing grin, yet, due to his current state, it was genuine (as much as Dazai hated to be helped by his insufferable partner). He sat on the toilet and slowly peeled off his sticky clothes and soiled bandages.

Chuuya shook his head, disappointed. “You’re going to need to rinse off before we proceed. There’s too much blood.” He paused, “You can do that, right?”

Dazai stood up wearily and nodded. If he couldn’t take a shower, his demise was rapidly approaching. Chuuya grabbed a roll of bandages and left the room (presumably to bandage himself in the meanwhile).

Under the sharp rainfall from the showerhead, Dazai’s whole body stung.. He examined himself, looking for noticeable differences. Aside from the copious wounds (which, frankly, weren’t too unusual for Dazai), there were no glaring changes in his body. Perhaps he had lost a bit of weight, but it was nothing which couldn’t be explained by typical fluctuation.

Cautiously, he stepped out of the shower and dried himself with expendable rags (he was still bleeding all over). The biting water had lifted a bit of his fatigue, but he was still extremely incompetent.

Having heard the water stop, Chuuya knocked on the door and hesitantly entered. “Shit,” was his first remark. “I was hoping it wasn’t as bad as it looked.”

“Nope.”

“Fucking hell. What the fuck were you doing today?”

“Well, you saw.”

“Yeah, I saw—I saw you give up almost immediately. What happened to the plan, asshole?!”

“I couldn’t go through with the plan… Sorry.” It was a statement of pity directed mainly at himself.

“‘Sorry.’” Chuuya sneered. “What’s going on? What was that—what is this all about?!”

“You won’t believe me, even if I told you.”

“Because you’re never fucking honest!” Chuuya’s tone dropped. “Just tell me already. I’m your partner. If this is going to affect the way things work, I need to know.”

“I’m going to die soon.”

Silence settled into the room along with the steam. Neither Chuuya nor Dazai could think of the appropriate words to say. Dazai breathed in the silence, hoping it would suffocate him. Meanwhile, Chuuya continued to work rhythmically, his spideresque fingers coiling bandages around Dazai’s arm.

“I have only a few months. No longer than two years.”

“Stop fucking around.” Chuuya’s fingers came to a halt.

“I’m not fucking around. This is the inevitable consequence of my ability.”

Chuuya eyed him keenly, searching for traces of dishonesty, but he found none. His blue eyes were tinged a shade darker with pity. Dazai found Chuuya’s raw, human sympathy (even for his loathed partner) admirable.

“It’s the downside of my ability—every ability has one—the gradual degeneration of my body. To slowly lose all your functions until you are nothing but a trapped mind in a deteriorated shell, that’s what it means to be ‘No Longer Human.’”

Chuuya stared up at Dazai in terrified awe.

“I knew I was going to die young,” Dazai continued, “but even I didn’t think it would be this early.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ve always wanted to die, anyway.”

Chuuya was stunned to silence as he began slowly working again. Carefully, he dressed Dazai’s wounds, applying soft pressure. The tender message of Chuuya’s busy fingers eased the tension in Dazai’s body. Superficially, Dazai was fully treated, but within him, there was a growing wound which Chuuya could never patch up.

All Next →

#Bungou Stray Dogs #Soukoku #Human Qualification #Dazai Osamu #Nakahara Chuuya #Angst