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circumstellars · 3 years

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i have a serious problem. im not even a discourse blog but im going to be spill it

nobody talks about it on my dash, which in itself is offensive, because thats a warning sign that most of these people are probably active enablers.

but ill be the one to say it i guess

The Umbrella Academy on netflix is super problematic and everyone keeps ignoring the harm its doing and im sick of it

The main "characters" on this show kill people with barely any care. I knew I should be worried that two people who do creative writing in show business like Steven Blackman and MCR would try and cross moral lines and of course they did. and the worst part is theyre paid to do it.

but theyre nowhere near as bad as the fans who glorify killing for free.

you wont believe some of the fics ive seen when voluntarily browsing through the TUA tags, and most of the time i dont even read the tags or filter them out, because whats the point I cant escape it. i guess i need to see it repeatedly day after day to even believe its real. if i dont go looking for it, then i might forget it exists.

and worst of all is the Five fans. hes so dangerous and gets excited about hurting people clearly and yet THESE VIOLENCE LOVING fans dont even care hes a CHILD, and yeah hes 58 but his mind and body and soul is entirely 13 and always will be!! they write or do these fanarts of him covered in blood and killing people anyway. wtf?

its frankly upsetting. i dont feel safe around these people, i dont know why they would support this. its wrong, morally, and its freaking illegal, and just repulsive. who would glorify such an act in their "writing"? only people who are quite literally okay with killing or people being killed write this kind of stuff. freaks. write about not illegal things, or is that too difficult when youre thinking about serial killing all the time? paedos.

and im speaking as someone who's great great grandfather was murdered, if i have to say it so youll believe me. in fact he was murdered with an axe, and everytime people put some gross Five (a CHILD) content in the tags where he's full of blood or weilding an axe like a godless sinner, I get physically nauseous. (i did watch it in the show when it happened the first time. and the other times. but i ignored it because it was so wrong obviously. but then i come to the umbrella academy fandom and have to see it again and again and again. these fans are so much worse than the original creators who wrote this. they do this for a hobby, and some of them are literally 30. i bet their family doesnt know they support this. why dont they go to their jobs or take their kids to church or smthg).

dont you dare tag my posts as murder or killing.

the murder academy fans better wake up and see what theyre doing is wrong. theyre no better than reginald, who i hate equally as much as a real person who is bad. imagine if a minor sees your violent art or fics, even tho they watched the show, now youre making them go to ao3 and pass all the nsfw consent buttons and read it more. its grooming and i wont stand for it.

anyways people who enjoy murder EVEN IF ITS FICTIONAL is wrong and serial killers better DNI i will shame you publically if i find out youre a serial killer or 13

rest in peace great great grandpa

i hope one day no one will ever hurt your memory by writing fanfic of murder ever again 😟 (sorry the picture is old i got from my mom its from the 1950s he was nice businessman and really tied any room together with a touch of nature.)

#my nonsense #dni if youre not taking me seriously #the umbrella academy must be stopped #or just the random strangers around me ill be satisfied with that too #fandom discourse

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esepoimipullula · 3 years

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So, there’s this reply to that “do you ever read you friend’s writing and you wonder why they even put up with you” post, about how that’s an unhealthy attitude that will only hurt both you and your friend, even if you pass it off as a joke. About how you should try to better your writing because you love writing and it gives you joy and improving makes you feel proud, not because you keep comparing yourselves to others or because you’ve been told you can’t be too confident in your achievements and now think hating everything you create is the way to improve when it’s really just a way to both destroy your self-esteem and make creating unnecessarily difficult. And the thing is, I agree with it. The wording feels a bit harsh to me, but I’m kind of an oversensitive softie, and I suppose people do need a good kick in the pants once in a while. And I really do agree.

I think love is fundamental, and if you don’t love writing or what you write, you should either stop or take a good, long pause to figure out if you can love it, again or at all. I write because I love it. Or at least, I feel something close to love for it. I don’t really think about it. Sometimes a sentence, a description or a line of dialogue or a simile or anything else, pops into my mind out of the blue and I’m like either, “Oh, what is that? Who or what is it about? Where do is it lead me?” or “Yes, that’s it, hold that until a less ungodly hour/a moment when I’m free to try and do something with it or at the very least write it down.” Sometimes I’m watching or reading or doing something and my brain says, “Yeah, but you know what would be cool? If this thing happened to these characters!”, and the thing that should totally happen to the characters may or may not be related in any way to the thing I’m watching or reading or doing. And sometimes I have a sudden craving for a certain story or character or scene, or a want that has built up through years, but of course I know I won’t find any piece of fiction that fits my tastes exactly and precisely and because I don’t know any writers who happen to be mindreaders and I’m not about to become the kind of prompter who feeds the plot almost line by line to the unlucky writer their asking for a story, so in the end I go, “You know what? This is actually a very good idea and it’s a shame no one has written it yet so I’ll just do it myself!” And sometimes I feel frustrated or unsatisfied or irritated or even just a little too frantic and in too deep to actually feel any love or joy or anything else while I’m writing rather than when I take a step back to reread and edit what I’ve written, but I wouldn’t trade all those other “sometimes” I’ve just mentioned for anything in the world. And honestly, I wouldn’t do it even with these less pleasant “sometimes,” as much as I like to complain or joke or jokingly complain about them. Because they are all part of what makes me me and the idea of ever giving them up, even for some relative peace of mind, feels as absurd and unnecessary as the idea of consciously trying to change my tastes in food or music or fiction or jokes or pets --- I can only guess at where some things come from, so how would I even go about upturning or taking away things that feel almost more like instinct than anything else? And why would I ever wish to? And I don’t think I’ve never been in romantic love, I’m not even sure if I know how that’s really supposed to feel like or work out, but this is kind of love I know. The kind of love I feel for my family and my friends, who all have annoying, stupid habits because that’s what people do and I’m sure they find my habits annoying and stupid, too, and that’s fine, and the kind of love I feel for our cat, who yells at me when he’s hungry and scratches me when we play and bullies the neighbour’s overly friendly, peace-loving dog and does a lot other things that made me fear and wonder, “Oh, god, what if the novelty of having a cute little cat all for ourselves wears off after a while and we don’t want him anymore and we become one of those families that take in a pet and change its whole life only to immediately give it back and give it trust issues in the process because they’re not actually fit to have a pet” before we’d actually gotten him but now they’re just part of him and you’ll have to fistfight each and every one of us in a parking lot if you try and take him away from us. That’s the kind of love I have for writing, and even if it’s not always joy, and sometimes it’s annyoing or irritating or no more pleasant than merely, simply breathing, what does the unpleasantness or the lack of enthusiasm really matter? Nothing, or at least, very little. It’s my love, I can only guess where it really comes from, it’s always with me and I can’t imagine it ever going away, and you can fight me in the aforementioned parking lot.

And I think it’s this love that allows me to... not quite be carefree about my writing, but something a bit like that. What do comments and reviews and kudos matter, if my love expresses itself through fandoms most people don’t even think can be considered as fandoms or themes nobody but me thinks or cares about? Sure, validation and compliments and people genuinely enjoying what I create make me feel great and may even warm my heart, depending on how much thought and effort I put into a particular work or how long I’ve wished to be able to find other people interested in a certain fandom, but they’re not my reason for writing or even something I really need -- I’ll keep doing my thing whether I get a hundred kudos and fifty comments or only three views. I did use to compare myself unfavorably to other writers and despair over all the ways I found myself inferior and lacking, but then I realized... what good is wishing I could be as good as someone else, or even someone else altogether, if my writing is part of me, stems from who I am? What influence on me could another writer’s success and the methods and techniques used to reach that success even have? I should strive to satify myself while doing what I want, to become as good as I can be according to my standards and through the methods and techniques that work for me. I can take what I like and analyse it and try to make it mine and incorporate it in my style and my ideas, there’s nothing wrong with that and it’s a good way to broaden my horizons and challenge myself and improve my work and love writing even more, but in the end, I can’t be anyone but myself --- and I may have lots of flaws, but in the end, there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with that. Actually, there is some joy, and even pride, in that. And so, I reread my old works and see them with new, more charitable eyes, remembering the fun and the satisfaction and the need to write precisely that specific thing, pushing aside the old doubts that gave me nothing but endless nitpicking and rewriting and saying, “You know? Maybe my use of em dashes wasn’t actually as overbearing and cringy as I thought, maybe I should start using them a bit more freely again.” I reread my new works and tell myself, “Fuck it, of course I enjoy this and I am actually a bit proud of it, I wrote it for myself, according to my own tastes and following my own inspiration and putting as much effort and care into it as I thought it needed!”

I still have doubts and fears like everyone else, but they’re more along the lines of, “I know I can write better than this, so why am I not doing it right now? What is the problem here?!” or “I love and care and believe so much in this idea and I want to be good enough to do it justice and make sure it’ll make me feel perfectly satisifed and proud with the final result”, than “Everybody is doing the thing I feel is my thing better than me” or “I’ll never be this other writer I admire.” My writing blocks are usually more about getting stuck in the middle of a work while struggling to find the right words to put the exact feelings and actions I have in my mind on the page precisely as I’ve imagined them (”No, thats not it! There’s something missing and I can’t go on until I find out what it is! The words here don’t sound right!”), or struggling to find the Right Words to start a new project at all because I still have to work on internalizing that perfectionism is the enemy and a first draft is meant to be changed and corrected and maybe even kind of suck even if rationally I understand both concepts, or having Something Big in mind but knowing I usually just follow the flow of my ideas until it dries up and feeling my best works really come from truly getting lost into it and then worrying about how difficult Building An Actual Plot Like A Rational Person will be, or having scenes or even whole stories feels just so complete in my head that laboring to get them out of it feels like doing the same exact work twice for nothing (which isn’t true, but tell it to my brain), or just... not being able to start or go on or even end even if I have everything from ideas to motivation ro the right, relaxed but willing and driven state of mind, for some reason. Or, like, utterly dumb stuff like, “This paragraph will only make me feel good if I manage to get the lines to align in this specific way without changing the meaning or ruining the tone and atmosphere, so I will now modify it four or five times until I get it right even if I know this doesn’t make any sense.”

Except... there’s this friend. Her writing is the kind that uses a scant amount of sharp, essential words to tell whole worlds made of unsaid things, so soft they make you feel like you’re inside a dream or so harsh they're like a punch in the gut but always so clever and full that you always feel you’re always missing somthing, you just aren’t smart enough to figure it out. I have to make a conscious effort not to compare them to my works, because then mine feel overwrought and overdramatic, childish and naive.

And I know, believe me I know, that despite how much of yourself ends up in your writing, despite how much your writing can be a part of yourself, skill as a writer is not synonymous with worth as a person. You can be a good and/or succesful writer and be a complete shithead, and thinks like kindness and open-mindedness will always be fundamentally more important than the ability to string words together in a pleasing manner. But she’s kind (perhaps kinder than I deserve, because I know sometimes I can be a real dick), and open-minded, and sweet in her own way, and brave, and confident, and so smart and cultured, and sharp, and funny, and interesting, and she seems to understand people a lot better than I do. And even when we’re just chatting, I’m not always sure I understand every layer to everything she says, I’m not sure I can keep up with her wit and her mind. The confidence I feel while writing evaporates and I feel slow and shallow and boring and dumb and wonder why she puts up with me, how she hasn’t realised she could be talking to her people more like her yet.

The worst thing is, it’s not even her doing anything to make me feel like this and I know it too well. I don’t even think she knows, and I hope she never finds out. She’s not just kind to me, but affectionate and supportive, and in a honest and genuine way, and I know it’s irrational and stupid to think I might have tricked her into behaving like that with me, or that she’s not being sincere, or that she just doesn’t care enough to take a good look at me and find out what my brain thinks is the truth. I know it would be hurtful and ungrateful to tell her.

I also know she’s not perfect, because no one is. She has her flaws, too, and sometimes she says things that make me roll my eyes or sigh in frustration. There are some things I know more about than her, too. And we don’t even live near each other so I’ve never even met her in person, so I know if that happened at one point, I’d probably find out a bunch of annoying things about her.

But when she compliments my writing, sometimes my brain either shortcircuits for a moment or starts coming up with all kinds of bullshit like, “She’s just saying that because you’re friends and she’s a very supportive person. You’re pretty much the only one writing for this ship, so this is more like when you’re desperate enough to run fics in Russian and Chinese through Google Translate and you still leave kudos even though half of it came out as gibberish. It’s like when you read something you know is actually not well-written or well-plotted at all just for a certain specific character or trope in it, she’s just the type who doesn’t believe in guilty pleasures. She’s using a very happy and pleased tone but that doesn’t mean anything on the internet, almost everything here is hyperbole anyway so her actual reaction must have been a lot more lukewarm.” And when she writes to me or says she enjoys talking to me, sometimes my brain will go, “That’s great and I appreciate it! ... but seriously, why.”

*sigh* I guess that’s another thing I’ll have to try and work on this year. Being more open about what I feel -- at least on a sideblog read by only *checks* fourteen people, none of whom are the friend in question or any friends we have in common or any of my regular internet friends at all -- instead of keeping everything bottled up inside at all times is another one, apparently. Let’s see if it’ll really make me feel lighter.

#personal #rant #please don't reblog #might delete later

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finalfrontierpioneer · 4 years

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2019 Fic Recs

To celebrate the end of 2019 (and also to procrastinate on my own fics!), I figured I’d round up 19 of my favorite fics of the year! Now, to be clear, these were all written (at least partly) during 2019, and they’re all complete. But that’s like all they have in common. They’re from random fandoms and some are def explicit and they’re in no particular order, but mostly it’s Riverdale lmao. Bc i’m trash and i ain’t ashamed.

Starting out with the Riverdale here babyyy:

Things unrequited by Bearfacedcheek

New Veronica, new type?

Set after S01E01 Veronica decides that Jughead Jones is the perfect antidote to all the bad romantic and moral choices she always seems to make. But making Jughead hers doesn't prove as straight forward a task as she expects

No peace nor rest by Bearfacedcheek

They're not stupid. They know there's no peace in revenge. But the sight of Betty and Archie together makes them stupid and whisky makes them weak, so they take the only revenge they can.

Set post 2x08 Betty and Archie enter a relationship, leaving Jughead and Veronica heartbroken and a night of drunken revenge sex morphs into something far more complicated.

have i been too discreet? by partyhardy

In which Betty realizes she slowly watched Jughead fall for Veronica.

keep telling myself i'm not the desperate type by Krewlak

The new kid at school argues with Veronica and it sparks something inside of Jughead.

Supporting Characters by torombolo

Maybe this was inevitable, Jughead thought, staring at the couple in front of him. He spared a glance at Veronica. From the look on her face, she thought the same thing. Betty and Archie. Archie and Betty. Perfect. The American Dream.

“Fine,” the dark-headed girl had told him, “I’m fine.”

“Me too,” he said convincingly. Whether he was trying to convince her or himself he wasn’t sure.

But Darling, Who Ever Said That Love Was Fair? by bothromeoandjuliet

There is no room for blood and thorns in the bubblegum scented word that was Betty Cooper's life, and both Jughead and Veronica know it. But that doesn't mean that they can help what they are or what they feel. Only, nothings fair in love and friendship.

Hindsight, As They Say, Is Twenty-Twenty by bothromeoandjuliet

Betty's always wondered why Jughead Jones broke up with her, and now, eight years after the fact, she finally gets her answer. (A one shot/drabble ft. past!bughead, and past!veggie, with a healthy dose of jeronica sprinkled all the way through.) ((Also I manage to write fluff that doesn't just turn to angst!)) (((So thats exciting)))

Some Stucky:

This Side of the Blue by notlucy

Tucked against a set of crumbling, stone steps was a tank made of metal and glass, filled to the brim with greenish water, distorted sunlight filtering through and casting strange shadows. Playing tricks on the eye. A trick was the only explanation for what Steve saw floating there. This figment of his childhood. This myth. This legend.

Within the tank, the siren bared its teeth.

Paper Tree by Ellessey

Bucky just laughs and shoves another bite of egg in his mouth, giving Steve a shrug and a full-cheeked smile. He's so damn cute Steve wants to shout at him, but he can't seem to say any of the right things. "Shoulda got you a comb for Christmas," is what he comes up with instead.

"What did you get me?"

It's Steve's turn to shrug now, and if he looks more terrified than cheeky as he does so, he can only hope Bucky doesn't catch it before Steve hurries out the door.

On December first, Steve wraps up a letter for Bucky and sets it under their Christmas tree. Now he has twenty-four days left to figure out how to tell Bucky what he wrote, face to face.

Political Animals by crinklefries, Deisderium

Okay, so the real problem is that you shouldn’t fuck your arch-rival, political enemy, and the person you loathe the most in the world where you work. Or like, at least, you shouldn’t keep doing that.

But okay, the thing that Descartes or whoever didn’t know was that Steve really tries, but Bucky Barnes has a mouth that should probably constitute an eighth sin or something.

Jesus fucking Christ, Sam’s going to kill him.

(or—Steve’s best friend is the U.S. Constitution and he can’t seem to stop fucking a hot Republican. They shouldn’t fall in love, but somehow they do. That’s it, that’s the fic.)

like heaven stood up in you by napricot

“You said you were gonna miss him,” says Bruce slowly. “He was supposed to be back in five seconds, but you hugged him and said ‘I’m gonna miss you.’”

Bucky’s face is serene again now, and gives nothing away. “I know Steve,” he repeats. “You think you can hand him a time machine and some rocks of unspeakable power and he’s just gonna go put ‘em right back where they belong?”

Steve does put the Infinity Stones right back where they belong. He just does a couple other things too. Or: three timelines and a Reverse Time Heist.

Drive It Like You Stole It: A Bodyswap by AggressiveWhenStartled

Steve had gone fully red-faced with pedantic altar-boy fury. “Did your computer forget how to Google translate?” he bellowed, sticking his head up and over. Bucky yanked him down again. “What are you even trying to say?”

Bucky tried to shake the sparkles off the grenade he had been planning on lobbing over the divider. “It sounded like Latin to me,” he said reasonably, pursing his lips and frowning at the explosive. It dripped a sparkle, and a puff of purple smoke curled up where it hit the concrete.

“That’s because you spent Sunday school flirting with Sarah Cunningham,” Steve accused, bobbing back up to throw his shield and ducking back down to dodge a shining ball of blue light. “You wouldn’t know Latin if it came up and kissed you on your ugly mug.”

“I’d sure know it if Sarah Cunningham did, though.” Bucky grinned, struck by the memory. “That gal really knew what she was doing.”

Some DC stuff (Halbarry):

Iconoclast by the_mythologist

When an alien race’s covert invasion and assassination spree decimates the Supercommunity, the survivors must band together to defeat against an unseen, invincible enemy. With many of their greatest heroes off-world or dead, the remnants of the Justice League, Teen Titans, Birds of Prey, Batfamily, and a few unaffiliated ‘heroes’ are all that stand in the way between the ‘Iconoclasts’ and Earth’s annihilation.

John Constantine is most unamused.

Slowing Down by Cinderstrato

It hadn’t been long after they first met before Barry began to suspect, in a vaguely-formed way, that it would be easy to fall in love with Hal.

sweating out a hot day by magnetocent

it's a hot day, but barry decides it's not hot enough

Okay now some one-offs from random fandoms/pairings:

Off The Record by crookedswingset

Peter Parker is a corporate lackey whose sole job is to root out problem executives who waste Oscorp’s money and time. Wade Wilson is a reserve Avenger on the hunt for a prize even Iron Man couldn’t nail down: the real identity of everyone’s favorite webhead.

Too bad most people think Spider-Man is Harry Osborn.

Stars Beneath His Skin by ElloPoppet

On the white piece of paper was a smattering of small, black dots. McCoy turned the paper, in search of a pattern or alignment of some kind but not finding even a trace. The dots appeared to be drawn at random or rather, McCoy noticed as he squinted, printed. He looked up at where Spock was standing over him and returned a cocked eyebrow of his own.

“If you need help cracking some kind of code, this isn’t exactly my specialty, genius.”

Rather than banter back, Spock responded immediately and smoothly. “It is not a code. That is the alignment of stars that would have been visible in the night sky from Earth should one have been standing at the coordinates where my Mother was born at the moment of the occurrence.” Silence blanketed the room, McCoy not having a goddamn clue how to respond to that. Luckily, Spock wasn’t finished.

“I wish to memorialize her with what most races would call a tattoo, and I would like your help with the matter.”

Too Close To Love You by stylescoalition

Aleks used to have a big crush on Brett but he doesn’t anymore, which is great considering they work together, on top of being good friends (suuuper lit). Now, Aleks is going to be living with Brett in LA until he finds a place of his own, but just because he isn’t crushing on Brett doesn’t mean that Brett isn’t crushing on him. Suffice to say, it makes things complicated… except it really isn’t as complicated as they think.

drawn to wilder nights by detectivemeer

Scott and Derek start a frenemies-with-benefits relationship, and it goes about as well as one would expect.

#fic recs #2019 fic recs #Jeronica #stucky #halbarry

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