The original tweet summarizes it pretty well. Fanfic tends to be popular among certain types of neurodivergent people (aka people most likely to read excessively as a child, and have burnout as an adult) for the same reasons that we tend to hyperfixate–neurochemical signaling (I hope I’m using that phrase correctly). What I mean is, for people who are really dependent on changes in dopamine/serotonin/neurotransmitter levels, who have low levels or wonky neural reward systems (perhaps the most common types of neurodivergence)…people like us rely on dependable external sources of those neurochemicals. In order to function, we spend a lot of our free time trying to level out our brain chemistry using things that can reliably bring us a steady stream of joyful moments (rewards) without costing too much of the mental effort that is already in short supply.
significantly: the investment of reading has to be balanced with a steady “return on investment”–and this return has to start fairly quickly. because again, we don’t have a lot of attention/energy to invest on tiring things. we have perpetual “low batteries” in that regard.
that doesn’t mean these stories are “simple,” or that they lack complexity or value–only that the reward has to come in short regular intervals, and it has to have a low “upfront cost.” these stories are only “easy” to read in the sense that the effort we put into them is rewarded in a timely manner. which is why fanfic stories are so perfectly formulated for neurodivergent readers–they are often beautifully written, but skip a lot of the upfront costs (of introducing new characters, of world-building, of getting the audience emotionally connected to the story elements).
the nature of fanfiction is that the reader has a pre-existing relationship with this world and these characters. that–combined with the shorter average length of fics–means that fan fics very quickly start rewarding the reader in a way that traditional fiction struggles to. that’s not a bad thing! and maybe it’s something more traditionally published writers should be paying attention to.
Fanfic, as a genre, has been uniquely helpful and accessible to many neurodivergent readers who would otherwise struggle to immerse themselves in stories. I’m glad so many of you have found a way to love and enjoy reading again! The important thing is that you are spending time inside stories you love–the way those stories are published or presented to the world is just one detail. The fact that you find joy in the process of reading (or listening!) to stories–that is what matters.
a bunch of people have reblogged this with the default “i feel called out” reaction….and i know when we say that we mean it tongue-in-cheek….but this comment sorta blew my mind & shifted my perspective up and to the left a little thank you♥
Summary: you are trapped in an awkward circumstance with a widowed commander. (Handmaid AU)
Warning: this series will contain violence, dystopian aspects, rape and noncon, blood, coercion, sterility, and other dark elements. Please read these warnings and beware.
Character: Tommy Shelby
Note: thank you for following along. I’m sure yall didn’t expect to write Tommy again but here we are. Also feedback and comments if you dont mind. Maybe a reblog. 💕💕💕💕
The Commander drives through the streets of the capital. You are as you always are. Eyes down and forward. You touch the grey cuffs of your smock and a wash of dread flows through you.
The weight in your chest sinks further as he comes to a stop. A guardian approaches the car and opens your door. You’re ushered out onto the street. You don’t look back as the tires roll away and you’re left without explanation.
The man makes no move to seize you. He merely directs you onward towards an unmarked door at the side of a tall brick building. Not a word between you as he gestures you inside.
It is brighter within. You follow long bending hallways, pure white walls and unscuffed floors. On and on until you are stopped again. Another door without number or word. He opens it and lets it fall open.
“Go inside. Sit.”
You obey. The door remains open as your footsteps echo in the empty room. You sit in the single chair across from a long curved table. While the chair you claim is cold and hard, those behind the table are cushioned.
You perch on the edge and wait, examining the featureless walls. You twine your fingers together and squeeze. A sterile smell dries your nose as the blankness reminds you of somewhere else. Some time else.
The beeping of machines, the chatter of staff, the sweeping of shadows from doorways, a nurse with a clipboard calling for the next to triage. A child against you, shivering and sobbing against your shoulder. Your son, clinging to his mother, needing her, trusting her.
Another door opens. Three men emerge and claim the seats behind the table. Your vision comes to focus. You don’t know any of them but they are dressed prim like most Commanders.
Your name echoes around you. Not ‘martha’, not ‘woman’, no, your name.
“Is that you?” The man in the center asks.
“Yes,” you answer, your voice catching in your throat.
A pen scratches on paper. The next question. Birthdate? Birth place? Medical conditions? Each answered in confusion. Why do they need to know all this. They’re just sending you to die.
“Children?” The man on the right prompts.
“One.”
Silence. Waiting. You continue.
“A son.”
“Would that be Elijah. Commander of Nalor County.”
“That is his name, I am unable to confirm his title,” you reply in a wisp. A commander? Your some is just the same, torturing women, living off their suffering.
“You have been a martha to Commander Shelby for how long?”
“I believe four years, but I cannot confirm for sure.”
“You aided his wife in her labour?”
“I did.”
Your neck trickles with sweat and your hair stands on end.
“During which, she died.”
“Yes.”
“And you would agree with the physician’s diagnosis that this was an unpreventable death?”
“I can only take his word. I was there to assist. I am not trained in that practice.”
“And when was your last menstruation?” The man on the left takes over.
You hesitate. You wet your lips with your tongue.
“You do still have a cycle?” He prompts.
“Two weeks ago.”
“And it comes routinely?”
“Yes.”
The men are quiet. They look at each other and then the papers before them. They nod and stand up. They say nothing else before they leave you. You frown. There is little use for an old woman who bleeds like a stuck pig.
You stay as you are. You wait. Your ears ring in the static silence. When at last footfalls approach, you do not look up. The guardian tells you to stand and you follow him from the room.
You are taken to another, again left alone. Two women in tan enter and bark at you to undress. They help, moreso strip you with tugs and yanks. Once you are naked they lay you on the metal table. They force you to bend your legs. You do not fight, too stunned to resist.
They poke and prod between your legs, a single digit slid inside, feeling around until they are content. They take your clothing and leave you, shivering and bare. You sit up and stare at the wall.
Another woman in brown enters. She nears with a parcel and puts it beside you, placing a pair of blue suede shoes on top. A simple word; ‘dress’.
She remains and watches you peel the paper back to reveal the blue dress, a fresh shift, stocking, and cape. You pull each piece on and the aunt helps impatiently, snapping into place the blue cape. You look at her but she will not meet your eye. She is not much older than you.
“Go out. The guardian will guide you.”
You cross the room, shuddering as you try to understand what is happening. It does not make any sense. This whole damn world has no sense.
You go out into the hall and the man in gray leads you on again. You walk with him, not behind him, this time. To what end, you are now completely unsure.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content including rape/noncon, predatory behaviour, just on the border of stepdad fic (this is a one time exception because this dynamic isn’t really for me but you know, brain makes no sense), mentions of mental health, bullying, isolation, bad parenting, age gap, allusions to self harm, violence. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You’re nineteen and life is standing still, that is until your mother meets her dream man, then everything changes. (innocent!reader)
Characters: Loki (silverfox)
Note: As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3
Love you all like Donkey love Waffles. Take care. 💖
You can’t move. You don’t want to. Moving means this is real. Moving means you have to open your eyes.
Pairings: (dark!)Geralt of Rivia x Reader
Summary: Reader teases the wrong man
Warnings: dubcon- oral sex (male receiving), misuse of the Wolf pendant
Word Count: under 700
a/n: Happy Birthday @sapphirescrolls❣️🧡 you and your words make this place more enjoyable!
It started with a coquettish action. Your eyes chased his over goblet rims, smiles hidden behind engraved filigree. Maybe it was the wine, the music, the crowded celebration that gave you the courage to play this game with him. Or perhaps it was the drunken ignorance to believe you could throw blood in an ocean and not expect an attack.
The broadness of his shoulders, the scarred veins descending his forearms to impossibly thick wrists, the shrewdness in his eyes, and the growl from his chest as you danced away again were all ignored warnings to stop toying with this witcher.
But the full awareness of how different Geralt was from others was further lost on you after downing another goblet. Naivety swam in your bloodstream with the idea you could enchant him for a few festive hours and ideally walk away like you did to other men.
Stolen castle corners, secret doorways to hidden alcoves; a flirtatious game of evasion that you found amusing was one he found annoying. The embroidered hem of your blue gown brushed away all sense and wisdom while you raced down the corridors. Your laughter floated past your shoulders gifting him a trail to follow.
Pairings: (dark!)Geralt of Rivia x Reader
Summary: Reader teases the wrong man
Warnings: dubcon- oral sex (male receiving), misuse of the Wolf pendant
Word Count: under 700
a/n: Happy Birthday @sapphirescrolls❣️🧡 you and your words make this place more enjoyable!
It started with a coquettish action. Your eyes chased his over goblet rims, smiles hidden behind engraved filigree. Maybe it was the wine, the music, the crowded celebration that gave you the courage to play this game with him. Or perhaps it was the drunken ignorance to believe you could throw blood in an ocean and not expect an attack.
The broadness of his shoulders, the scarred veins descending his forearms to impossibly thick wrists, the shrewdness in his eyes, and the growl from his chest as you danced away again were all ignored warnings to stop toying with this witcher.
But the full awareness of how different Geralt was from others was further lost on you after downing another goblet. Naivety swam in your bloodstream with the idea you could enchant him for a few festive hours and ideally walk away like you did to other men.
Stolen castle corners, secret doorways to hidden alcoves; a flirtatious game of evasion that you found amusing was one he found annoying. The embroidered hem of your blue gown brushed away all sense and wisdom while you raced down the corridors. Your laughter floated past your shoulders gifting him a trail to follow.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content including rape/noncon, predatory behaviour, just on the border of stepdad fic (this is a one time exception because this dynamic isn’t really for me but you know, brain makes no sense), mentions of mental health, bullying, isolation, bad parenting, age gap, allusions to self harm. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You’re nineteen and life is standing still, that is until your mother meets her dream man, then everything changes. (innocent!reader)
Characters: Loki (silverfox)
Note: As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3
Love you all like Donkey love Waffles. Take care. 💖
You sit with eyes closed as your mother gently blends eyeshadow on your lids. She’s insisted on doing you up for the party and it’s easier to just let her. You’ve argued enough with her. Just go along and it will end. Eventually.
As a late celebration to my third year anniversary on this blog, I will be doing some drabbles!
For this drabble extravaganza, I will be writing 10 drabbles and you all will get to choose the character for each. I've chosen to do it this way to avoid overwhelming myself and to make sure I don't disappoint my wonderful followers.
So, you will use this form and select one character per prompt from the list. I have included characters I write less often and some characters I haven't written before.
If you have prompts you haven't voted for but are unfamiliar with the remaining characters, you can simply select 'pass'. Please only vote for a character once, meaning do not select the same character more than once in the form. If you answer Character A for Prompt B, you can choose them for another prompt.
I will be taking feedback until Friday, April 15 at 12pm ET.
Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; power imbalance.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Character: silverfox!Andy Barber
Synopsis: You try to pretend like nothing happened but a familiar face won’t let you forget.
Note: Please let me know if you enjoy this continuation and what you think. It will help me determine if I should keep going.
Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)
I really hope you enjoy. 💋
<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!
📖
You always thought hangovers were supposed to be miserable. You felt a little hollow and somewhat odd, but your head was fine and your stomach didn’t even gurgle.
As you woke slowly to the yellow morning peering in past the curtain, it was something else that made you feel rotten. It was that thought that hadn’t left your mind; that man.
😈Corrupt-a-Wish: Tommy Shelby + cuddling in bed with Thomas Shelby during a brutal snow storm😈
“Pull the fuck over,” Tommy growls.
An unusual snowstorm has fallen upon the countryside. You won’t make it to London. You steer to the side of the road as Tommy turns the map again. He sighs and crumples it up.
“Fuckin’ Arthur,” he sneers under his breath, “keep on. Just up here to the west.”
“Where’re we goin’?” you dare to ask as you push back into gear.
“I don’t need you to ask questions, I need you to drive,” he puts his head back and swipes off his cap. He pinches the bridge of his nose, “if I didn’t have to drag my lout of a brother…”
His voice trails off as you do as he says.
That day was peculiar for more than just the snow. You didn’t plan on the drive to London but it was a last-minute improvisation. You take deliveries down to the docks, you don’t chauffeur the boss. All you know of Tommy is not to bother him.
“Here,” he points suddenly and you nearly miss the speckled white path.
You veer up the gravel and along a curving row of trees. You continue on in the silver reflection of moonlight on the gathering flakes. A small house stands beneath the drooping branch of an old walnut. You stop as Tommy orders you to kill the engine.
You have many questions but don’t ask them as he climbs out impatiently.
“It’ll do for the night,” he snarls as he puts his hat back on, “old place used to be a checkpoint when we ran liquor round here.”
You nod and trail him to the crooked door of the hovel. Without pretense, he enters and you catch the door behind him. He pulls out a cigarette and kicks the basket of logs next to the hearth. He paces the dark space and you set to lighting the fire in the old iron stove.
It casts amber light over the room as you search for a lantern or a candle among the rubble. Not much but a dirty old mattress and raggedy blankets in the corner. You rub your hands together and hold them out to the flickering flames. When you can feel your fingers again. you back away.
“We’ll need more wood,” you say plainly.
“Right,” he waves you off.
You leave and wonder how you got yourself into these things. Sure, you knew your employers were bad men but you were always just peripheral. You get an armful and shiver as you break down thicker branches for the night and head back.
You enter and find Tommy scowling on the mattress, lighting another cigarette. You stack your haul into the basket and stir the embers so the fire gets some air. You linger close and try not to be too obvious about the chill.
“All that won’t last the night,” he chatters and sucks in smoke, “when I was… in Europe, we couldn’t have fires. Not most nights. We huddled two or three to a tarp, and those were nights we weren’t being battered with mortars.” He tosses his smoke down and smothers it with his shoe, “get over here. Sooner we sleep, sooner this shit’ll clear out.”
“Sir,” you approach him as he peels back the layers of dingy blankets which he’s fixed to be as orderly as possible.
He tucks his legs under and puts his cap to the side of him as he quickly slides under. You follow suit and settle in next to him.
“Turn,” he motions with his hand and you face away from him.
Suddenly, his arm is around you and he’s snug to your back. You frown at the wall but say nothing. You couldn’t deny the warmth seeping into you.
“Right then,” he says.
The walls shake with the bellow without. You close your eyes as sleep would be better than the waking tension. You feel his breath against you and focus on your own. You feel cold creeping in beneath the edges of the blankets.
Seconds, minutes, moments you cannot count pass. The light from the fire dulls behind your eyelids as the smell of burning wood and smoke tickle your nose. It’ll die out soon enough and you expect to be up and down feeding it for much of the night.
You wince as you feel a shift. A low groan, maybe hum, from Tommy as his arm moves over you. You squeeze your eyes shut as his fingertips brush along your jacket. Seeking warmth, he unbuttons it and tucks his hand inside. You stiffen but ignore it. Sleep. It would be your only escape.
His touch ruffles your shirt and he pinches the large button at the top of your trousers, You squirm as he feels along the top of the tweed and carefully shoves his fingers beneath. You gulp at air but resist the urge to elbow him away, instead making an odd noise.
“Shhh,” he purrs along your ear, “it’ll help.”
“Mr. Shelby,” you utter.
“I didn’t ask you to talk,” he asserts as he pushes lower and his wrist draws the top of your pants taut, “but I don’t mind a bit of noise.”
Prompts: “You go me so hard right now in that skirt…” & “It hurts.” “I know.” + Buck Barnes + ballerina!reader & virginity requested by several anons.
Summary: Your afterhours practice takes an unexpected turn.
Please leave some feedback and reblog if you enjoy! Thank you 💜
The studio’s quiet, empty, and calm. You like those hours, when classes are done, when training ends, when it’s just you and the scuffed floor. Your time spent at the dance hall is paid in sweat and sometimes even blood. You work off your due with a mop in hand.
The wood shines from your labour as you sit on the stage, the curtain at your back. You change without modesty, your leotard still smells of sweat, the pleated skirt falling to mid thigh.
You hear the music in your head, feel in your veins and the tension in your muscles as you extend your leg. The footwork comes without thinking as you close your eyes and fall into the habit, the repetition guiding your body.
Your toe pivots and the spin has the air like a cyclone around you, arms bent perfectly, you extend and dip into your next move. The abandonment flows through you, a melancholy dance for ghosts, and you lose yourself in your imagined show.
You twirl and hit a wall, losing track of the floorboards and the limits of your routine. When you open your eyes, it’s not the old wooden boards or the curtains that line the outer walls, but another sort of barrier. You stumble back off your toes and land on your ass.
The man stares at you transfixed for a moment before he moves. You push yourself back with your heels as the panic fills you. This man, this stranger, this intruder flinches as you shy away.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” you gasp out as you stagger to your feet and keep him at arm's length. His eyes follow your arms, to fingertips at his chest.
“What?” he asks, almost disappointed.
“Who… are you?” you gulp, “you shouldn’t be in here.”
“I… you don’t know me?” he asks.
“N-no,” you look around, it’s empty, still, except for him.
“I…” his throat constricts and his left hand forms a fist. You watch his knuckles, slatted metal unlike anything you’ve seen before. You retract your arm and back away. “I watch you. Every day.” He points out to the velvet seats in the dark, “just there.”
“I don’t… I don’t know you,” you utter,
He’s quiet. His deep blue eyes swallow you like the ocean, caught in their tide as the desolation sweeps you up. You take a step back as his eyes cling to you, crawling down your body as he puffs a heavy breath.
“You got me so hard right now in that skirt…” his timbre changes as his voice scratches past his lips.
Your lips part and you snap your mouth shut just as quickly. You spin and your feet slip. He encourages your descent with a soft nudge and you hit your elbows on the wood. He bends over you as you roll onto your back and bat him away.
He catches your hands and you struggle, kicking up and hitting his arm with your knee. You try again and hit his side but he’s too strong. He pins your hands beside your head and straddles you.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he says as he holds you between his thick thighs, “I wanted to be nice, we could’ve been nice.”
“Let me go!” you writhe, “please, let me go.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, can’t you see that?” he pleads.
“I don’t know you!” you spit in terror.
He winces and the dimple in his chin deepens. His jaw ticks and he swallows. He shakes his head and pulls your hands above your head, holding them with one of his as his other creeps down your body. He lingers on your curves, tickles your ribs and caresses the folds of your skirt.
“Please,” you squeak, “please, whatever you’re thinking–”
“Shhhh,” he tugs at the edge of your leotard, metal fingertips brush the crease of your leg, “I wanna be nice, doll.”
“I don’t…” you sniff and push your head back as you wiggle against his grip, “I can’t… I never…”
“Doll, it’s okay, we can take it slow,” he purrs and leans down, nuzzling your cheek as he delves between your folds, “just a little…” he pushes his fingers against your entrance and your mouth forms an O as he stretches you slowly around his knuckles, “at a time.”
“It hurts,” you quiver and bend your legs as your heels bounces off the wood.
“I know,” he whispers against your skin, his damp breath making you shiver as tears trickle, “but I’ll make it feel good.”
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