#this is not a critique this is me going 'I like this

[musical-eliksni-philosopher]

No.

The invitation to comment, up to and including flaming the absolute shit out of the work, is implicit in the choice to upload it to the Internet in the first place. Sure, you shouldn't do that as a matter of courtesy, but if a writer isn't ready for that then they should keep it on their hard drive.

You put it out there on a platform that allows comments on works and in a community that generally encourages sharing constructive criticism so its members can learn to express themselves better. Of course I'm going to comment. And if I'm doing my job as a reader, I'll have some critical things to say.

Also, I've seen too many fics that use "don't like, don't read" as an excuse. When you respond to thoughtful critique with "don't like, don't read," you really mean "I don't want to get better and I do not care about the effort you put into your comment."

And at that point, I stop caring about your feelings. Because you've stopped caring about mine, and about the community as a whole. You just want an echo chamber of praise. And there's nothing inherently wrong with that, but by the same token there is nothing wrong with me taking your fic, sharing it around, and laughing at how bad it is.

Don't like it? Either take the concrit and accept the existence of trolls, or don't post it.

heard someone say archive of our own should install a "dislike" button and I thought I should say this: no, there's absolutely no need for archive of our own to install a "dislike" button.

why? because archive of our own isn't tiktok or youtube or twitter/x where users can monetize their content. archive of our own is a nonprofit site run by fans for fans, which means every content — every fanfic — you see on archive of our own was made out of pure love and passion from the artists/authors.

ao3 authors write because writing about these characters is their happiness and passion. they write for themselves, but they were generous enough to share with you their creations.

they're not "content creators" the way tiktokers or youtubers or instagram models are. they don't "make content" for views and engagements that can be monetized.

so no, you don't get to "grade their works" unless they specifically and directly ask you to.

you don't get to "say what you dislike about their works" unless they specifically and directly ask you to.

you don't get to "dislike" works that are not made specifically to please you in the first place. you're just a guest in someone's house, a house in which they let you in because they were kind, you don't get to roam around their house and say what you dislike about their furniture. you don't get to roam around their house and say you "dislike their house".

of course, you can have your opinion about the house its host invites you in. but if it's a negative one and you find yourself not liking the house, the polite things for you to do is excuse yourself and leave without telling them you dislike their house.

and just because you personally dislike the house doesn't mean the house is "ugly" either. the house you dislike could be a favorite, most luxurious place to many others.

my point is, don't be entitled by wanting the rights to voice your disapproval of things that you get to enjoy for free. don't be entitled by wanting the rights to voice your disapproval of things that were made out of love and passion — things the artists made for themselves for fun.

it makes you look like an entitled jerk with main character syndrome. the universe does not revolve around you.

now repeat after me: don't like don't read. no one forces you to continue reading a fic you don't like. quietly leave instead of being rude to authors who write for free because writing is their source of comfort.

people are so used to contents that were made because it's a trend / contents like tiktok that were made with the main purpose of reaching high engagement and making profits that they forget sometimes things can be made out of love and be made just for fun. sometimes things are supposed to just be for people to enjoy, and if some people don't enjoy them, then they can simply leave without being unnecessary unkind.

[britneyshakespeare]

when i last saw my friends i was talking about my barbie collection, present and past, and explaining the lore of various supporting characters from the decades, and at one point i bothered to drop the sentence "because i was obsessed with barbie as a kid—" before catching myself, realizing i was explaining the entire web of barbie's friends and family, and said "now i'm just normal about her. the way i am about barbie, that's how everybody is."

[poisonf0rest]

Poison I am on my hands and knees BEGGING PLEADING IMPLORING for some more teacher Rafayel i did not know I needed it until you made me see the light godbless biggest fattest kiss for you MUAH

(I hope you don’t take this as me demanding you to write anything, definitely only if you want of course!!)

teacher's pet?

♱⋅── a/n: 3k of Professor! Rafayel. It's not his fault you're so easy to tease, to rile up, to get you right where he wants you when you're being a brat and not listening to your dear professor.

Rafayel is a world-renowned artist, known for his masterpieces communicating all the rage and depth of the ocean, a devotion so palpable apparently you could drown in it. A rumor second only to his notorious reputation of having the face of an angel and personality of the devil. 

You can vouch that both these rumors are damn near true. 

Linkon University jumped at the opportunity when the Rafayel offered to become an adjunct professor for the senior year art capstone.

From the first day, the entire lecture hall was captivated under Rafayel's siren spell, his voice like sweet poison as he first introduced himself to the class, words a careful balance between arrogant and playful— that is, until you introduced yourself. 

It was barely noticeable, something you almost swear you imagine, but those sunset eyes light up when you say your name, his smile becomes a little less hollow, and something in his gaze arrests you so violently you nearly forget to look away. 

Little do you know Rafayel has been looking for you in this lifetime for nearly seventy years. And finally, finally he’s found you. So what if these circumstances are a little less ideal than usual? 

He’s not letting you go again. 

Professor Rafayel gives you impossible standards to meet, critiques that cut deep enough to make you want to scream, and grades that keep you shackled to his office hours.

He’s careful, though. His feedback is always just shy of unreasonable, his authority unchallenged, his reputation untouchable. And when you come storming into his office demanding an explanation, he just smiles, leaning back in his chair with the air of a predator who knows his prey walked right into the trap.

“Poor thing,” he drawls, feigning sympathy as his eyes slowly trace your figure from behind his glasses. “Maybe you’re just not cut out for this. But I suppose... with the right guidance...”

He lets the offer dangle, his gaze heated and unwavering. You hate that your heart races, hate that you need his approval, his help. Hate that he looks so damn smug knowing just how to make you beg, just how to make you come looking for him instead. 

Professor Rafayel savors every insult you hurl behind his back, every time you grumble to your friends about his impossible standards and arrogant demeanor. He listens, silently cataloging each biting word, each curse muttered under your breath.

And when he finally has you moaning his name, his mouth wicked and merciless between your thighs, he can’t help but remind you of every cruel thing you’ve said.

“You’ve got such a filthy mouth, cutie. Didn't you call me a sadistic asshole last week?” His fingers dig into your hips, holding you in place as he flicks your clit with his tongue again, smirking as you writhe in overstimulation. “I suppose I am... but you love it, don’t you?”

The way you choke on a sob only makes him smile wider.

Private lessons with Professor Rafayel become a blur between you learning and losing your mind. 

Half of the time, Rafayel is a masterful teacher, and his passion for art is as mesmerizing as his paintings. He speaks about color theory with a fervor that none of your other professors have come close to, his eyes alight as he explains the emotional weight of each shade, the way hues can whisper secrets or scream rage. His knowledge is boundless, and his lessons on storytelling through art are so captivating you almost forget to breathe.

But it’s the tales of Lemuria that leave you spellbound, like something out of a fairytale or tragedy. Ancient techniques lost to time, rituals where pigments were mixed with seashells, and spells hidden in brushstrokes. He speaks with such reverence, his voice low and haunting, and sometimes, just sometimes, you catch a flicker of sorrow in his gaze, as if he’s lived through it all.

He shows you his personal collection, paints richer and more vivid than anything you’ve ever seen. Reds deeper than blood, shimmering blues that seem to ripple like water. He teaches you to paint underwater landscapes that feel eerily familiar, scenes of ancient temples swallowed by the sea, fragments of a forgotten and drowned world.

You convince yourself it’s just Rafayel’s eccentric genius rubbing off on you, a byproduct of his intoxicating charisma. But then he watches you with that knowing smile, his eyes gleaming as if he’s waiting for you to remember something you’ve long forgotten.

The other half of the time, Professor Rafayel’s lessons are nothing short of madness. He invades your space, his body always too close, his mere presence overwhelming.

His hands are always on yours when he shows you how to sketch the curve of moving muscle, the delicate slope of a hip, fingers guiding yours with agonizing slowness. His touches linger, featherlight in ways that make you shiver, his breath brushing your ear as he murmurs instructions, his voice addictive and velvety.

You try to stay focused, try to be professional, but his scent wraps around you, warm and heady, and your mind spirals. You spend far too long watching the way his hands move, the lithe grace of his fingers, the gentle strength that could so easily ruin you.

Your paintbrush trembles, your breathing uneven, and you can’t help the way your heart races when his chest presses against your back, his hands guiding yours as he whispers, “Just like that... perfect.”

Your professor knows exactly what he’s doing, of course. Rafayel feels the way your hand trembles around the paintbrush, sees the way your pupils dilate, hears every shaky breath. Rafayel drinks it all in, his smile infuriatingly smug, his sunset eyes heavy with satisfaction.

And when he finally touches you—really, truly touches you—all your remaining morality crumbles.

Of course, it’s punishment when you fail to turn in your twenty still-life practices by the end of the week. 

You’re slammed down on his desk before you can think to protest, paint-stained fingers clutching the wood as he presses you down, his body caging you in. He kisses like he paints, with passion and devotion, stealing your breath and sanity in one fell swoop. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, your thighs—touching, gripping, claiming.

You gasp as he pushes your skirt up, his fingers slipping beneath your underwear, babbling nonsense about how dare you wear something so cute, so sinful to his class and how he’s been thinking about ripping it off your slutty little hips all day long. 

“All that complaining, but you’re rather obedient now,” Rafayel teases, his voice mocking as his fingers curl, instantly finding that spot that makes you scream around his fingers. “Maybe if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d learn faster.”

You curse him, or at least you try, but the words dissolve into a broken moan as he curls them up again, his thumb circling your clit with maddening precision. Rafayel laughs. “You’re very cute when you’re frustrated.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re crying his name, apologizing for being a brat, every stroke and curl of his fingers calculated to drive you to the edge, to make you lose all sense of time and reason. And when Rafayel finally lets you come undone, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, he watches you fall apart with that infuriatingly smug smile, as if this was his plan all along.

And maybe it was.

Later, you’ll try to paint again, your mind hazy, body aching. But every brushstroke feels too intimate, every color too vibrant, too alive. You’ll stare at the canvas and swear it’s moving, the paint shimmering, swirling, forming shapes that look hauntingly like his eyes. You’ll feel his presence behind you, his hands warm on your shoulders, his voice velvet-smooth as he purrs, “See? Was that so hard?”

Private lessons were always his trap. And now, Rafayel’s got you exactly where he wants you.

When Professor Rafayel suggests you sketch him nude “for practice,” he’s already won. 

You know it the moment his lips curl into that wicked, knowing smile, the kind that makes your pulse race and your stomach flip. You should have said no. Should have refused, made up some excuse, anything to avoid this situation. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. And now you’re trapped, heart pounding as he begins to strip in front of you.

He’s maddeningly slow about it, drawing out each movement with practiced ease, and you’re hyper-aware of every single detail. The way his fingers deftly loosen his tie, the silk sliding from his collar with a whisper that makes your breath hitch. His eyes never leave you, watching every nervous fidget, every time you shift in your seat, pretending to be unaffected. But you don’t fool him. Not for a second.

Rafayel’s hands continued down to the buttons of his shirt, his long fingers working methodically, one by one, exposing more pale skin with every pop of fabric. You can’t help it—your gaze follows the path of his fingers, tracing the lines of his collarbones, the lean muscle beneath his skin.

You swallow hard, mentally panicking if it would be worse to watch him or worse to chicken out now, practically surrendering and acknowledging what watching your professor does to you. Not that you could think at all when his shirt falls open, slipping off his shoulders to pool on the tiled floor, leaving him half-naked, so casually beautiful it makes you ache.

Rafayel’s enjoying this far too much, you realize, noting the smug glint in his eyes as he watches you struggle to maintain your composure. He begins to thumb at his slacks and you whip your head away, your entire body going rigid at the sound of his belt unbuckling, the click of metal on metal echoing through the empty lecture hall.

You don’t dare look, eyes glued to the blank canvas before you as heat floods your cheeks. But your traitorous mind cruelly fills in the details, painting a picture more vivid than any still life you’ve ever drawn. You hear the rustle of fabric, the soft creak of the pedestal as he positions himself, and when you finally gather the courage to glance back, the sight makes you forget the canvas entirely. 

Rafayel lounges on the pedestal like he belongs there, all long limbs and lazy grace, his body on full display with a confidence that borders on obscene. His skin is milky pale, the delicate arch of his ribs leading to the defined lines of his abdomen, his muscles lean and corded beneath flawless flesh.

He’s every bit the masterpiece you expected, unfairly beautiful even like this, his glasses still perched on his nose, that infuriatingly smug smile playing at his lips.

“Well?” he drawls, arching an eyebrow as he settles into a pose, one arm draped artfully over his head, his body a careful composition of sharp lines and curves. “I thought you were supposed to be drawing, not gawking. Not the best student, are you?”

Your cheeks burn hotter, and you force yourself to look back at the canvas, gripping the charcoal so hard it threatens to snap. You try to be professional, try to focus on the technicalities—the shapes, the shadows, the proportions. But it’s impossible when every angle of him is so utterly mesmerizing, when every stretch and shift only highlights the elegance of his form.

Your strokes are shaky at first, charcoal dust smudging your fingers as you outline his figure, but it’s hard to stay steady when his ocean dual-toned eyes are fixed on you, gleaming with mischief and something far more dangerous. He knows exactly what he’s doing, each subtle change in his posture designed to make you squirm. When he stretches, his body arching like a cat, you almost drop your charcoal, your mouth going dry at the ripple of muscle, the unapologetic sensuality of it all.

“You’re tense,” he comments, his voice soft, lilting with amusement. “Your lines are stiff. Rigid.” He shifts, his body unfurling as he sits up, one leg bent, his arm resting lazily atop his knee. You make a sound in protest, frowning as you lose your reference. “Heh, you won’t capture the fluidity of the human form like that. You need to relax, loosen up.”

You bite back a retort, teeth grinding as you force yourself to adjust your grip, trying to follow his advice. But then he’s standing, moving toward you without a semblance of shame or modesty, his fingers curling around yours, guiding the charcoal along the paper. His completely bare body is so close, his skin warm, the faint persistence seasalt and driftwood scent of his cologne intoxicating as he presses against your back, his voice low and teasing in your ear.

You don’t even realize you’re leaning back into him, one hand still shading the muscle and contour of his body as the other blindly reaches out for Rafayel’s body, hitting the edge of his abs before sliding downwards ever so slowly. 

“Don’t stop there, I’ll help.” And Rafayel’s hands come to meet yours, encircling the charcoal with one as the other wraps your palm around his dick. “You have to move your hand like this…” Gently flicking his wrist to show you the proper shading technique for the lighter areas, groaning into the back of his neck as you repeat the movement around his base, already leaking down to your fingers. 

“Just like that, nice and fluid.” His fingers guide yours around his shaft, setting a pace that makes his breath hitch, his head dipping to rest against your shoulder as his hips roll forward, chasing the friction. “Good girl.”

You can barely focus, your vision blurring as he curls his fingers around yours, moving the charcoal in slow, fluid strokes over the paper. But your other hand is trapped—held in place by his, wrapped around the velvety heat of his cock, his hips giving the tiniest, most subtle thrusts into your palm as if he can’t help himself.

He’s so hard, so hot, already leaking onto your fingers, and your breath shudders as he groans against your neck, his lips ghosting over your skin.

“You’re sooo tense, cutie. Why is that, hmm?”

“Professor…” His title slips out before you can stop it, your voice trembling, your fingers tightening instinctively around him. His laugh is breathy, wicked, and he nips at your ear, his teeth sharp, his tongue soothing the sting. 

“Remember, it’s just Rafayel when we’re together.”

You can’t breathe, can’t think, not when he’s so close, not when he’s touching you like this, guiding you, molding you. His thumb rolls over yours, smudging charcoal across the page, and you realize you’ve accidentally traced the same curve over and over, lost in the rhythm he’s set. You’re not even drawing anymore, just following his lead, letting him control every movement, every sensation.

“Rafayel.” You repeat, and he swears he loses his mind just a little. 

“That’s it,” he urges, his voice shaking slightly, rougher. “You can be braver than that. This is your art, isn’t it? You decide what to do with it.” Rafayel’s teeth scrape along your neck, and you shiver, your eyes fluttering shut as he ruts against you, his cock twitching in your grip, his moans muffled against your shoulder as he loses himself to the pleasure you’re giving him. 

When suddenly, he pulls away. 

You’re entire body goes rigid. Did you do something wrong? Did he change his mind? Has he finally realized how utterly inappropriate this is and chose to save himself the scandal and embarrassment of being caught with you? 

Mind still racing a mile a minute, it’s Rafayel’s gentle touch on your tense shoulders that has you breathing again.  “On second thought, maybe I’m not in the right condition to teach you. Maybe you also need to…” Rafayel’s arms come to wrap around you, fingers slipping under your shirt as lips trace the shell of your ear, and you swear you feel a light nip. “get comfortable.”

The charcoal hits the ground with a hollow crack. 

Your back hits the wall of his office with a muffled thud, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless. This was supposed to be a professional meeting, it was supposed to end with you getting that damned A back on the last assignment. But not like this. Not this.

It’s reckless, dangerous, stupid. But Rafayel’s hands are already beneath your shirt, those stupidly gorgeous and talented fingers caressing bare skin, and each heated touch makes it harder to remember why you were fighting in the first place.

“Wait,” you gasp between kisses, your voice trembling as his mouth trails down your neck, “People might see...”

“Shh, it’s okay, cutie,” Rafayel laughs, his voice a low purr that vibrates against your collarbone. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide with desire, a wicked grin playing at his lips. He’s already ruined you, already got you drunk on his touch, and yet you’re still worrying about silly, inconsequential things. That means he’s not doing enough.  “No one will know.”

Not that he’d mind. In fact, the thought of someone catching you like this—of someone realizing that you’re his, completely and irrevocably—only excites Rafayel more. After all, he didn’t lock the door. Anyone truly could just walk in, and his cock jumps at the thought. 

Teeth grazing your pulse, Rafayel’s tongue soothes the sting as his fingers tease below the waistband of your jeans. “You’re so cute when you try to be good,” he teases, his voice mockingly sweet. “Too bad you’re not really the model student you pretend to be.”

Your protest dies in your throat as his hand finds your clit with practiced ease, stroking slow and deliberate through your panties, drawing out a needy whimper that you can’t quite swallow. His mouth is on yours again before you can think to be embarrassed, the kiss possessive, consuming, swallowing every last protest you can think of. 

“See?” he whispers against your lips, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You don’t really care who hears, do you?” Rafayel then curls his fingers, thrusting deep in as you scream, clawing at his shoulders and desk as your knees go weak.

God, you hate him. You hate the way he knows your body better than you do, the way he unravels you so easily. You hate the smug look on his face, the cocky confidence as he drives you to the edge. But you hate yourself more for how desperately you crave him, how much you want him, consequences be damned.

Because he’s right, nothing matters here. Not anymore. 

Nothing besides your dear professor.

[avelera]

(Writing Advice) Tips for Writing Dialogue

I would never, ever give unsolicited critique on a fic and I would never, ever out a fic I'm reading as being the one I want to critique.

But it gets so much harder when the edits I want to offer are really simple ones. Like, when I know where the author stands in their growth and I can see so clearly what their next step would be and I just aoiruoairoiariowaurwouARGH want to point out one little concept that will elevate their story by lightyears but since I do not know this person I don't dare because you never know what advice is going to be absolutely crushing to someone and entirely unwanted.

SO, before I explode, I want to give the advice I would offer.

This is specifically for people who find themselves writing really long paragraphs of dialogue between two characters that feel sort of unnatural when read aloud. Dialogue that is very "on the nose" ie, characters say what they mean and they say EVERYTHING they mean in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination. It's open, clear communication to a fault and sounds very unnatural as a result.

The thing is, I don't want to tell people not to do that. Actually, writing out EVERYTHING the character could say is a GREAT first step! But the second draft should involve whittling down all of that into the most powerful or gripping parts of that paragraph. And I want to discuss how:

(Note, sometimes that is the pleasure of the genre that the author is going for! Sometimes in fic, the canon characters are so bad at communicating that it can be pleasurable just to write them fucking talking to each other for once.)

But, if your goal is to eventually write more naturalistic dialogue and also dialogue with a bit more tension and momentum to it that really pulls the reader along and makes them feel immersed in the world, you should keep in mind that most people don't say everything they mean in conversation. Even when people are being carefully, deliberately, perhaps even drunkenly entirely open with each other, they often speak in fragments or need to backtrack to clarify a point.

However, most people don't say everything they're thinking, especially if it's very vulnerable, because of things like fear of rejection, or pride, or even because they have their own goals that might be disrupted if the other person knew everything. Sometimes, there just isn't time for a big sit-down where all the feelings come out!

However, this isn't about small-talk, which is a bit more self-evident that it shouldn't be paragraphs long for every exchange. Fiction tends to thrive in momentous moments, moments that tend to be a bit rare in real life but that stick out in our minds forever.

For example, fiction revolves around couples realizing their feelings for each other far more often than any one person would experience that moment in their life. So in fiction we heighten and elevate these really powerful moments and we love exploring them as readers.

SO, when I'm stuck on ALLL the things characters could say to each other in a really charged moment, but I'm not sure what the best thing would be, I don't hold myself back. I just let it all out. I open a pair of brackets and say:

Bill says, [I love you. I don't know how to say it because I'm 20 years old and scared and I've never been in a relationship before, but I do. You've been my best friend my whole life. I think you're the most beautiful and amazing person I've ever met. If you reject me, it would destroy me. But losing you as a friend would destroy me even worse. So I feel like I have to play it cool for a variety of societal pressure reasons but also to protect my heart and my pride. I want to open the door a bit, I want to hint that I like you, but I don't want to risk it if I overstep. I'm not ready to take the leap yet if there's even the slightest chance it won't work. Maybe we could try getting coffee?]

Then I'll go back through and bold the lines that are most powerful to me, the ones I really want to keep, as seen above. Then I mull over that for a bit and try to put it into more naturalistic speech. Something like,

Bill says, "Yeah, well... you're pretty cool too, I guess. Maybe we could grab coffee sometime. Try that new place that just opened."

^^^ Obviously this isn't award winning dialogue but what I would hope to capture with it is a young, insecure person who is leaving a lot of openings for plausible deniability, who isn't overcommitting to a love confession that could get their heart stomped on but is tentatively advancing a compliment and a desire to spend more time together at a plausible location for either a date or just friends hanging out.

The rest of what's deleted from the paragraph is now a secret that they're trying to hide. And secrets tend to be very powerful in fiction and performance. It makes the audience mentally engage with what they think is hidden behind those words. It leaves space too for more conversations between the characters.

Maybe over coffee a bit more of that entire paragraph comes out, which pulls the reader along through the story. Maybe each time they hang out, a little more comes out after that, because most people don't give their love confessions in one huge block the minute they realize they have feelings. And the anticipation of getting to the moment where the whole hidden paragraph is revealed also pulls the reader along and makes them excited (hopefully) for that moment. It makes them keep reading your story to reach that moment.

Anyway, TL;DR: writing out a whole paragraph of everything your character is thinking for each line of dialogue, everything they could possibly say, is GREAT for the first draft! You don't want to lose a potentially juicy and powerful line just because you edited yourself too soon.

But in the SECOND draft, before you publish, dialogue gets a lot more powerful and compelling if you whittle it down to be more naturalistic, to hold a bit back, to allow a bit of mystery, especially with big emotions and confessions that would be hard or scary for a person to reveal, that might encompass the actual plot or subplot of your story (for example, getting to a love confession could be the plot or subplot of a slowburn romance, so you want to sort of piece that build-up out and not just dump a whole confession on the first page, unless that IS your goal!).

Trimming down a huge paragraph to one line of dialogue also makes for snappier, more dynamic dialogue overall, even if the content isn't as emotionally charged as a one-in-a-lifetime love confession.

[theunicorncomic-blog]

This reminds me of a bastard I have dubbed Hooters Husband.

So, I work as an English tutor, and I’m randomly given student papers to review. This one was a persuasive essay in the form of a letter trying to convince someone to change a behavior. Most people write to relatives to try to convince them to stop smoking, eat better, things like that. This woman was writing to her husband to get him to stop driving a half hour away from his work to go to Hooters every lunch break. It took all my professionalism not to be like, Girl leave him! Especially after she sent me back subsequent drafts saying that he spent about $500 per month on Hooters.

I had to remind myself that I wasn’t Dear Abby and stick to the writing critique but oh my god there was so much to unpack

i have such a low threshold for bullshit now that i'm seconds from telling this woman on the crochet subreddit to leave her husband, even though i know it won't end well for me.

she made him a wool hat and stressed repeatedly to him that it couldn't be machine washed. he washed it anyway, destroying her work. she's trying to play it off like a funny anecdote, how it was sweet how sorry and sad he was in the aftermath, but then let it slip this kind of thing has happened multiple times/continues to happen in their relationship, because he refuses to accept her knowledge as a textile artist and constantly ruins the nice things she makes or buys for either of them. i think he should be killed.

[transmutationisms]

Hey. So that claim that stimulants do completely different things for people who “have ADHD” and “don’t have ADHD” is obviously bullshit but I was wondering if you happen to have read anything I could refer to about that

Okay I want to try using this to break down how I would actually approach this type of question, inspired by some posts I've seen recently about how to read and analyse things that are wrong / bad / liberal.

I don't have, off the top of my head, a published & refereed source that discusses this particular claim. I'm pretty certain there is at least one such thing out there. But I'm also pretty confident it won't be very good. The claim it's responding to is relatively historically recent, & is cloaked in still-fashionable neurobiological terms. Also, the literature on ADHD is bad in general, and so is the general quality of the kinds of imaging studies that are cited to support such claims about 'brain differences.'

If I were writing a literature review or a historiography, here is the part where I would need to go find these things anyway. Then I would have to explain how they make their arguments and what's missing, and depending on the scope of the piece I might have to explain my own philosophical / political position, and advance my methodological critique of the literature I just spent several days finding & reading.

Fortunately I'm writing a tumblr post & my sense is your actual question is "how can I better argue against this obviously bullshit claim," so I don't have to do any of that. There's not really much point sinking that kind of time and effort into finding a source I already think is unlikely to adequately make the argument I'm looking for anyway.

Instead, I would now look at the claim itself. What must be true in order for it to hold?

ADHD brains differ from non-ADHD brains

This difference is relevant to the action/metabolism of stimulant drugs

Okay, claim two on that list requires dealing with psychopharmacology & very exact physiological mechanisms, which means a shitload more reading and most of it punishingly dry and technical. Sad & bad.

Fortunately, though, I already know -- from every reading ever, as well as my experience existing on earth -- that ADHD is not diagnosed by any sort of brain scan, anatomical observation, blood test, etc, but by subjective (yes, even if they made you do it on a computer) clinical observation. Hmm, that's super weird for something that is a 'brain difference.'

I also know that psychiatric categories are difficult to correlate with biological observations even where those observations do exist, because an imaging study on ADHD is necessarily only pulling the 'ADHD sample' from people already diagnosed with ADHD. It's circular. Philosophically this is the same problem I laid out in section one of 'What is an alien?' (which you can read & understand even if the main topic of the essay doesn't interest you).

And I also know that brain imaging studies generally are riddled with serious methodological flaws (post discusses the dead salmon study among others) and don't actually produce meaningful, replicable biological distinctions in any kind of correlation with psychiatric categories (also, variation within categories is also very high).

Oh, wait. Now the claim above looks like patent nonsense with zero philosophical foundations. The burden of proof is on whoever's making that claim, & the basic underlying principles are wrong. Yayyyy.

This exercise means 1) I've sat down and reasoned through my own opinion, giving me clarity on why I think what I do and what evidence would change my mind and 2) from now on, when I see someone else make the claim I'm responding to here, I'll know off the bat that they haven't done the same & are starting from a very credulous attitude toward very low-quality research. And I didn't do this by trawling the literature until I found the exact thing I was looking for, but by thinking through the arguments and evaluating a body of literature that is generally explicitly hostile to the kinds of critiques I make & respect.

[prettyboykatsuki]

tbh while it is a little funny for me to go "incest power up" about my writing i do think that consistently grappling difficult and harrowing subject matter in interesting narrative ways played a huge part in my writings improvement over time - because i was constantly having to challenge and think very critically about material i was engaging with.

aside from me simply writing a lot - and even though i write a lot of sexually explicit content, needing to interrogate a characters thought process is probably what altered my writing style the most over the last few years

writing yandere gojo was a huge turning point in my writing career because it really really challenged me to think from the perspective of someone insane and learn how to demonstrate their thoughts and choices with some semblance of realism. it also taught me how to get my audience to suspend disbelief - something done through writing consistent characterization and not just hoping they will for the sake of my story. i felt like i understood that better when writing through that lens.

with dark content in particular - i felt that writing was more likely to feel cheap and for shock value when i sanitized it and did not hold true to the chain of events that led up to something. even the eroticism of a horrible thing requires extensive understand about the circumstances needed to make the work feel alive and physical

and im not a perfect writer (not even a good one some days i fear sdkjfsdj) but i think it is my ability to do these things that makes up for other critiques i have for myself like my lack of polish and complete inability to write prose (my language is very simple rip. idk if this will ever get better but alas)

i think though - it's not that you need to write dark content but you need to consistently write things that challenge you in some way as an author to improve. you need to do something that is very daunting to you and then try to navigate that - whatever daunting may mean for you personally

[rikosseen]

Goo Kim x Reader: Ticking time bomb

Anon req | Goo finally feels the taste of his own medicine

It’s not looking good for Goo Kim. You’re so suddenly quiet that it feels eerie and threatening.

“My sweets…” he begins, and you smile at him while folding the laundry.

Maybe you truly are in a good mood— but Goo Kim of all people can only hope.

The silence stretches before you start throwing the laundry basket and a pair of loafers at him.

“AM I SOME SLAVE? HUH?”

The blonde jumps and rushes over to you. “No, schnookums! I was going to do them after, promise!!”

“I ASKED THREE HOURS AGO,YOU LAZY COW,” this time your fingers are up his nostrils and Goo goes flying to the couch in a fit of sobs.

With a scowl you turn away and throw another loafer at your counterpart.

“You…complete…me…” he wheezes while arms stretch out to reach for you.

.

“Sweetheart,” Goo coos. “You’re not very good at this,” he puckers his lips.

Your teeth are clenched until you see defeat written all over your screen. Before Goo can cackle and throw his head back in amusement, you stuff his dirty socks in his mouth.

“Cocky bastard,” is spat at your poor boy before you force him to stand up and push him into the bed.

“Stay there, you rat.”

.

Goo’s been misbehaving the entire week, and the little fishface thinks Gun’s company is better than yours (it’s not). Your mood is anything but pleasant at the moment.

“Here’s your drink my love,” he sits down across you and takes in the cafe’s interior.

You hum and take a sip. Goo anticipates your critique.

“Like it?” he smirks, confident that you do.

“It…”

He leans forward with a widened smile.

“TASTES LIKE CRAP,” you scream in his ear.

Customers give the two of you a look as Goo tries to calm you down.

“Baby..!” he starts.

But you start convulsing suddenly and pretend to have another stroke. It’s evil to do this to Goo after it happened once, but how many times had he lied about a broken arm?

“Baby!” he screeches, catching you in his arms.

The staff members gather around you two and try their best to help until your body lies limp.

Everything goes silent for a moment, before you pull away from Goo’s grip and mindlessly walk out the door. Everyone watches with judgement, and the baristas all think, I don’t get paid enough for this crap.

[stellanautical]

This reminds me of this post: https://www.tumblr.com/switchelsweets/720604113161830400/i-want-to-share-some-wisdom-from-my-high-school

I want to share some wisdom from my high school art teacher.

In my AP Art class, there was a girl who was just starting to experiment with mixed media. At this point she was still playing around, trying to decide what direction she wanted to go with her portfolio. So one critique day, she brought in an abstract canvas with some rhinestone highlights and painted and real peacock feathers. She loved sparkles and peacock feathers so she thought she’d try introducing them a *little*. And after everyone had given some input, the teacher gave her his advice, VERY roughly paraphrased here:

“So here’s the thing… I do not like this style. These are just elements that do not speak to me personally, but I see that you like them, and you’re doing interesting things with them.

“My biggest critique is, I only merely *dislike* this piece. I want you to make me HATE it. Go crazy with the things that you like. Don’t hold back trying to make it palatable to people like me. Because I am NEVER going to like it. And if the audience does not like it, it should drive them crazy seeing how much YOU love it.”

been stewing on an analytical approach to fiction which I call "is this book afraid of me?" and in order to answer this question you determine how hard the book is trying to make sure you don't come after the writer on twitter

[plaidos]

Hi, I really admire your homestuck takes and reading, especially because it's been a while since I last read it. Because of that I've been recently thinking about some discussions I used to have and because I don't see you talk that much (or at all, if it's for a reason please ignore this ask🫣) of the dancestors I wanted to ask a bit about Porrim specifically because back in the day I really liked her but obviously there's also this aspect of her being a caricature and idk I'd really love to hear your perspective on her character, who she is, her feminism, something a bit better than just me finding her cool as a teen haha. Obviously no obligation but also if you're feeling it please be as elaborate as you want haha. I really admire your work with Homestuck

i don’t really see Porrim as a caricature, which is saying something because like, almost all of the dancestors are one-note caricatures right?

out of all of the ancestors, to me, Porrim seemed to be taken most seriously in the narrative. whilst Mituna, Cronus, Kankri etc are all obviously just mean jokes through and through, the way Porrim’s values are presented in direct opposition to Kankri’s makes me feel like we’re just unambiguously meant to agree with her.

the set up of Kankri’s social justice warrior pastiche only works in comparison to 2012 era Andrew’s take on an actual serious activist. everything Porrim says about gender on Alternia & Beforus is placed side by side with a terrible take from Kankri where he is blatantly misogynistic in return; it’s so bad that even Karkat (at this point in the story starting to recognise his own problems with women) is utterly gobsmacked by how his dancestor consistently dismisses any feminist critique, even going so far as to call Beforus & Alternia matriarchies, despite Porrim pointing out that whilst they may have had an empress, the ruling & law-making/enforcing castes are overwhelmingly male dominated, leading to what Porrim describes as a “fuchsia-down matriarchy, purple-down patriarchy”. i think it’s pretty clear we’re meant to take Porrim as the Reasonable Normal Feminist & Kankri as the terminally online discourse poisoned social justice warrior. Really, Kankri is the caricature to Porrim’s correct opinion having straightman.

a lot of people also take issue with her being portrayed as promiscuous but i don’t really have a problem with that? besides, from what i recall, that’s information that we basically only learn through men being sexist to her (again — mostly Kankri).

in regards to her design, a lot of people forget but like, the whole “inked up feminist with cool homemade piercings” was like a whole genre of aesthetic back in the day all over this website (which is, of course, what the dancestors are ultimately parodying — tumblr).

[olderthannetfic]

Opinion on negative bookmarks? Not like "this is shit" or "the author shouldn't be writing" type of bookmarks, but like, unfavorable reviews. Someone critiquing the grammar/characterization/pacing or giving a number rating. I see a lot of people getting very upset about them and saying that any negative bookmarks should stay private, because writers are already sharing all of this for free.

Me, idk. I can see why it might be upsetting for an author to receive a negative bookmark, but I thought that public bookmarks sort of worked as a space to comment on/review a fic for other readers. It's possible that I can only say this because I've never got a negative bookmark on my fics, but I genuinely think it's whatever.

--

This comes up all the time.

Bookmarks are for readers. I don't expect them to stay private because they're often for other readers besides just the bookmarker. They are not, however, for the writer, and the writer should stay out of them if it's going to be too upsetting to see "2/5 stars DNF" or whatever.

[chaifootsteps]

Hi there! So, not really a “defense” I guess??? But I did want to point out that Bored Oranges actually DID release a video admitting he was wrong about dismissing the workplace abuse allegations, and apologized for that. The video is here:

https://youtu.be/U9urNbKpjD0?si=Tl4vPywIdNX-e6Ms

He linked Ken’s document in the video’s description, and apologized for being so dismissive as well. He admitted to kind of getting duped by all of the “weak” accusations about Viv (like the bathtub snakes) and seems to really regret his prior defense of her behavior.

I don’t know much about his content, and I’m not trying to say he’s perfect, but I do think it should be acknowledged that he admitted to being wrong about defending her and apologized.

With all of that said yeah, I think a LOT of reviewers DO use kid gloves with Viv, and while I think that should be talked about and called out too, i have a REALLY hard time blaming reviewers who do so because of how hostile Viv’s fan-cult is. I can’t help but think about how Sarcastic Chorus was one of THE fairest reviewers, and even admitted to going easy on Viv’s writing critique-wise, and STILL got harassed by fans.

It just sucks that people are literally afraid of just CRITIQUING a show b/c the fandom will threaten them over it.

Did he? That's fantastic, actually! It's never easy to admit you're wrong.

(He's not alone, either. Those bathtub snakes had me defending Viv for longer than I probably should have, too.)

[wyervan]

Heyo!

I love your writings and art and all. You must have given me some brainrot, cause your slasher Sun was in my dream a few nights ago. It was in an arcade (maybe theirs?) and we were just chatting. It was nice :)

Plus, a question. What's something that each of the two slasher bois are passionate to talk about? Like, you get on the topic and they will talk for hours? Keep hydrated and well rested.

Okay, I think you might be the 4th or 5th person to tell me that they’ve had dreams about the slashers? I actually had one myself a couple weeks ago featuring Moon. Not much pleasant conversation though lol, in fact, things got very violent very quickly. Comes with the territory I suppose. And not unusual for my dreams 😬. I consume a lot of horror content 👹.

I mean it’s not hard to get Sun talking on most subjects. Even ones he doesn’t know much about like, idk, sports or technology, he could go for a quite a while on what he does know (or tbh what he really doesn’t lol). Conversation can be very meandering and stream of concious with him. He thinks aloud and talks to himself too.

But I think it would become obvious from how often he brings it up when discussing other topics, that Sun’s favorite subject is the arcade/playplace and all its patrons. Especially the youngest ones. It’s really his whole world that him and Moonie have rebuilt from ruin. Every soul that has come within its walls leaves its impression on the arcade and Sun… some deeper than others.

Sun will ramble if you let him. But he’s also an hyper-attentive listener! He loves people. And loves to learn about the things that people love.

Moonie’s harder to answer for 🤔. He is just generally not a yapper. Like I just cannot see him speaking for any significant length about any subject (at least when sober). You could definitely get him started on his favorite arcade games (Galaga, Street Fighter, DDR, Rampage), but soon you’d start to see him get a bit fidgety, eyes darting over to the game cabinets.

He’d halt in the middle of explaining a technique, looking a bit frustrated because words aren’t cutting it to convey what he means. “Come here. Just show you” and he’d grab your wrist and lead you over to the game in question and demonstrate what he’s talking about first hand.

Then he’d want you to try it, switching to watching you play with rapt attention, making clipped critiques and comments, chuckling and teasing. Moon isn’t much of a conversationalist, but if he likes you, he’ll share the things he loves in his own way.

[andhumanslovedstories]

I was originally going to move to the Pacific Northwest with Cyrus at the beginning of 2017. Then Trump got elected, and I couldn’t do that anymore. I didn’t know what I was going to do instead, but I felt a duty. It feels more comfortable in a way to say I felt a duty to my community, and I did, and I do, but it might be more honest to say rather I felt and feel a duty to my country. As a kid, I heard the phrase, “My country, right or wrong. If right, to be kept right, and if wrong, to be made right.” To me—naively, idealistically, yes—that was what America meant. A flawed nation full of people who were trying. And Washington DC was the place where that happened. So the work I needed to do would be in DC.

It wasn’t. I didn’t end up going into politics—probably a good call since I think that would have killed me. Instead, I became a nurse. I help people on a more personal level. I try to change one hospital’s culture. It’s a smaller focus, more sustainable, and one that gives me satisfaction, but it’s not what I thought I’d be doing in 2016 when I woke up to discover that I’d been even more naive about our country than I thought. And it’s a role I’ve been feeling the limits of lately as history unfolds.

But weirdly enough, thinking as much as I have about the country lately, I’ve come to the realization that I am still as patriotic now as I was as a kid attending anti-war protests and sitting during the pledge of allegiance. The worst of us don’t get to claim to be the only people who get to love our country. They don’t get to make this country whatever they want. I am an American, and as fraught as that identity is, it is mine as much as it is anyone else’s.

For better or worse, for good and for evil, the core of the American identity is that we can make America whatever we want. You can (and should!) analyze, critique, deconstruct, and often condemn that idea and the ones underpinning it (like, for example, the false and harmful idea that the continent was a vast empty space just waiting for us to fill it with “real” civilization). But the idea endures. And the idea has power. And the idea doesn’t have to be ceded over to those who can’t conceive of a world not shaped by their cruelty, hatred, bigotry, and a bottomless lust for power.

I’m not just an American. I’m also a Virginian. Sandwiched between the capital of the Union and the capital of the Confederacy, teeming with civil war battlefields, it’s a state that reminds you constantly that you have to fight for the country you want. To the north, we’re the south, and to the south, we’re the north, and every region of the state is its own distinct subculture. It’s not easy to find the overlap between Nova and coal country. I love my state, and I am deeply ashamed of so much of its history and culture. Leaving Virginia didn’t make reconciling those two facts any easier or make me hold them any less true.

After writing the first part of this post, after thinking all the thoughts that led me to writing it, I went on the most impromptu cross-country trip of my life back to the east coast and northern Virginia. Crazy what makes you homesick. I wanted so badly to move away from Virginia after living there my whole life. And I love the west coast. I bought a house out here, it’s safe to say I’m pretty locked in to the PNW. But lately I’ve been feeling wistful for other versions of my life. Not regretful, but still a little sad that life is a series of mutually exclusive choices.

There’s worse fates than loving two places. And that love has given me comfort when reality has absolutely not. As Trump and his cronies remake American in their image, the betrayal and grief I feel has been strangely invigorating. I wouldn’t mourn as much as I am if I didn’t love what they were taking away. It’s not a simple love or an easy one, but it’s still love. As we go into this particularly dangerous continuation of the debate about what America is, it will be very important for us to remember what we love.

There's so many horrible things happening in America right now that it has been interesting to see what individual horrors hurt me personally the most. I grew up going to the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Musicals, plays, concerts, that weird bust of JFK, playing around on terrace during intermissions, putting on a velvet dress that you're going to ruin dropping a milk dud in your lap and not noticing until it's fully melted, wearing the pinchy shiny shoes that are the training bras of women's formal footwear, operas I didn't like but did love, jazz I didn't understand but still fascinated me, red carpet, big stairs, the absolute nightmare amount of experiences I had as a new driver as I repeatedly got trapped in the Kennedy Center's fucking private DC island or whatever the hell is going on traffic-wise, free performances on small side stages, getting to see an enormous production on the Center's most enormous stage, all of which was accessed by walking through that a long, tall hallway lined with flags of the world that made you feel like a dignitary attending the most important even in the world.

And now Trump's taken it over. He fired its board. He appointed one of his loyalists to run it. I want to throw up.

Sometimes I miss DC so much. I love the Pacific Northwest and expect I'll live here for the rest of my life, but this isn't my hometown. I grew up the edge of the District. I've lost cumulative years of my life stuck in traffic on the inner loop and outer loop. Because of the Smithsonian, it used to be so baffling to me that anyone ever had to pay to get into a museum. I've used the Washington DC zoo as a shortcut to a different part of the city because it's free to enter. You couldn't count the amount of knockoff Spider-man popsicles that I've eaten sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. My reading tastes were molded by Kramer Books in Dupont Circle. I spent afternoons walking around the National Mall, normally just a big empty field until there's an event--book fair, country music program, international cuisine, whatever--at which point for a day or a weekend or a week it becomes a sea of tents and stages. I went to protests outside the Capital and the White House about the war in Iraq. I froze my toes off watching Obama's 2008 presidential inauguration.

It seemed like everyone's family touched the federal government in some way. Everyone's family had moved here because they were military or state department or a political consultant or worked with an NGO or some other reason that meant you had to be here, in the nation's capital. Plenty of people had connections to the federal government that we more hush-hush. Like kids in class straight up going, "I have no idea what my parents do for a living. They're not allowed to tell me." High schoolers regularly, accidentally drove into the CIA parking lot and got escorted out because the premises were that accessible. My family moved here because my dad is a reporter who ended up covering international trade. (Imagine how much his job sucks right now.) He switched beats one summer to cover the White House instead. He got to fly on Air Force One. He got official Air Force One M&Ms. I was SO disappointment my dad didn't work there for Bush to call on him by nickname.

Every day my family got The Washington Post. I read the comics and the kid's page, then the rest of the Style section, then Metro, then news. I learned to read from it. We wrapped our delicate Christmas ornaments with its pages. We used yesterday's papers to clean our windows because they didn't leave streaks. I took journalism in high school. You can't IMAGINE how much and how frequently we talked about Watergate. When Post changed its motto to "Democracy Dies in Darkness" after Trump's election in 2016 that meant something to me. I knew Bezos owned the paper now, but that was still my paper, and the motto spoke to something I fervently believed: if people just knew what was happening, they wouldn't allow it to happen. If you expose a problem, people will naturally agree that it is a problem and that we should do something to fix it. Flash forward to Trump's third fucking campaign, and the newspaper wouldn't endorse a presidential candidate. Chickenshit cowardice. Then they change the motto. "Riveting Storytelling for All of America." Eat shit. You're nothing now.

Politics in America is just telling everyone how much you hate Washington, DC so that they'll elect you so you can move to DC. Well, guys, the city fucking hates you too. Republicans will never give the District actually meaningful political representation because no one in that city would vote for them. It's not just the policies; it's the contempt. No one in the new administration loves the city they schemed and lied and stooped to take over. It's just iconography to them, and all they care about is taking that iconography for themselves. Trump doesn't give a shit about the summer program for the Kennedy Center. He has never seen a show at the Kennedy Center. When he was president, he never attended the annual awards. He's trying to destroy one of the most significant places of my life and I'm genuinely unsure if he has ever stepped for inside of it.

[thydungeongal]

I like your opinions on rpgs: what do think of ironsworn/starforged mechanically? if you’ve played?

I haven't played either yet, but on the surface I like what is going on in Ironsworn. Its design seems very deliberate and it has immaculate vibes. The fact that it has support for solo play has had me thinking that I should take it out for a spin on a really slow day at work so I could see how its mechanics actually feel when the rubber hits the road, but it's a game I have recommended to people in the past purely on the strength of its presentation and the fact that it's completely free so you have nothing to lose by giving it a look.

So yeah, I sadly can't give a very in-depth critique of it, but what I can say is that it's a game where simply reading it has made me go "huh, neat!"

Oh also thanks to this ask I was reminded of the fact that I've been meaning to check out Starforged and Sundered Isles and they just happened to be on sale as a bundle both on itch.io and DriveThruRPG now so I picked them up! So thanks for reminding me! :)

[elexuscal]

thinking about the Good Place, specifically season 1 and the start of season 2. And like how they serves as a meta commentary on what sit coms and tv is in general these days. You come up with an initial premise and the premise is GOOD. But inevitably that premise cannot keep forever. the characters need to grow and change. But that premise is the show's identity. So the writers fight to keep the status quo! or maybe not the writers, but the producers. And you can feel the story and characters themselves bucking the restraints, trying to change, as any single change-- a dramatic reveal, a pair of characters hooking up, a new life choice-- threatens to ruin that status quo forever.

So what do you do? You make the characters forget. Forget the lessons, forget their character growth, break-up with their partner, return to the will-they-won't-they, forget, forget, forget. Reset; start again. Do it again, a little bit differently. Now they're neighbors. Now they're cowboys. Now there's a dog.

Or zoom out beyond individual series; look at the endless re-releases and reboots and adaptations. Do it again, but this time...

How long does it go on before the characters themselves rebel?