#Observing the formation of social structure

[quantam-furniture]

I adore doing things that my prehistoric ancestors would probably recognise

[luna-azzurra]

Writing Child or Teenage Characters:

Writing child or teenage characters requires an understanding of their unique perspectives, thoughts, and behaviors at various stages of development. Here are some tips to help you capture the essence of child or teenage characters realistically:

1. Research Developmental Stages: Familiarize yourself with the developmental stages of children and teenagers. Understand the physical, cognitive, emotional, and social changes that typically occur during these periods. This knowledge will help you depict characters at appropriate stages of maturity.

2. Voice and Dialogue: Pay attention to the language and vocabulary used by child or teenage characters. Their speech patterns, sentence structure, and word choices may differ from adult characters. Reflect their age and level of education in their dialogue to make it authentic and relatable.

3. Emotional Authenticity: Children and teenagers experience a wide range of emotions, and their emotional responses can be intense and sometimes unpredictable. Show their emotions through their actions, reactions, and internal thoughts. Be mindful of age-appropriate emotional depth and understanding.

4. Observational Perspective: Child and teenage characters often notice and interpret the world differently than adults. Highlight their unique observations, curiosity, and innocence. Allow them to have a fresh perspective that can bring a sense of wonder or discovery to the story.

5. Growth and Development: Portray child or teenage characters as evolving and growing individuals. Show their learning experiences, mistakes, and the lessons they learn along the way. Capture their gradual understanding of the world and their evolving sense of identity.

6. Relationships and Peer Dynamics: Explore the dynamics of friendships, peer pressure, and social hierarchies that are prevalent during childhood and adolescence. Show the influence of friends, family, and mentors on their thoughts and behaviors. Highlight the importance of relationships in their lives.

7. Hobbies and Interests: Reflect the passions, hobbies, and interests that are common among children and teenagers. These activities can shape their identities and provide opportunities for self-expression. Incorporate their hobbies into the narrative to add depth and authenticity.

8. Growth of Independence: As children and teenagers mature, they seek more independence and autonomy. Depict their struggles with authority figures, their desire for freedom, and their exploration of boundaries. Balance their growing independence with their need for guidance and support.

9. Challenges and Coming of Age: Explore the challenges and rites of passage that child and teenage characters face. Address issues such as identity formation, peer pressure, academic stress, bullying, first love, and self-discovery. Treat these themes with sensitivity and avoid trivializing or dismissing their experiences.

10. Evolving Relationships with Adults: Capture the evolving relationships between child or teenage characters and the adults in their lives. Show the shifting dynamics, conflicts, and moments of connection. Avoid portraying adults as one-dimensional authority figures or overly understanding mentors.

[fawnpires]

hihii idk if ur requests are open but I'd like 2 kindly question for a konig x hyperfem! reader?? just konig falling in love with cutesy fm reader -🎀

୨୧ — anon, you’ve just blessed me with creating the concept of college!könig + hyperfem!reader together as a pair.

꒰ CONTENTS ꒱ -> COLLEGE AU, hyperfem + fem!reader, college!könig, undertones of pining, strangers to lovers, dumbification, size difference, oral sex [fem. receiving], mutual loss of virginity, messy sex, tons of manhandling, usage of pet names.

There's something about him that appeals to no other girl; he's around a year or two older in comparison to you – a kept-to-himself, socially bordered-off type of guy, barely knows how to communicate with others, barely knows how to converse with girls at that.

Hell, you don't even think you've seen him up until now, – excluding the classes you have with him – perched up in some corner of a borderline sketchy frat party, spread-legged on the couch and stiff as ever with a red solo cup cupped in his equally tense fist. Not his kind-of environment. Not the sort to be here. Makes you wonder where he'd much rather be right now.

You're smitten by him, as early as those feelings sound and fully embedded itself in your head. But who were you to deny them about a guy like him? – a lean, tall structure with just a sufficient amount of softness and toughened muscles around the edges, the kindest hues of blue gracing the formations of his eyes, and that nearly dreamy shade of pale-sandy that his shaggy hair and light stubble takes on.

And you don’t have the faintest clue how, but you would never expect to end up on that couch, the bared skin of your thigh beneath the pleats of your little mini-skirt rubbing up against the coarse fabric of his jeans. although it’s probably the alcohol, or the closely intimate atmosphere of the party, but either way, you had no doubts that his mere presence was to have you hooked onto him. (save for the innocent school-girl crush that you'd never owned up to until right about now.)

"König, right?" you asked, striking up benevolent conversation all while giving him a timid yet sweet smile plastered against the puffiness of your glossed-over lips. 

The moment you had first made your way over here and politely invited yourself directly next to him, it left him paralyzed, constricted in his own body to some extent. He couldn't deny your beauty as much as you found his own; a bit ditsy in all the right places appearance-wise, but possessing your own personal fashion sense which he found quite endearing. Little pale-pink ribbons he had always observed you wearing around campus and during classes somewhere in your hair, a variety of mini-skirts and dresses, or the occasional crop top and a track-suit. The cliché feminine kind. 

This particular exchange seems to pique his interests. He comes across as oddly indulged in you, eyes discreetly alight than usual.

“Mhm. I know you,” he nodded, a delicate gruff-ness lingering in his tone. “you’ve become a common sight to me, not to sound strange, but I'm sure we have most classes together.” 

“Not strange at all. Though, I barely see you around outside of classes.” 

“Yeah, I figured. just not the partying-type, it’s a mystery as to how I ended up here.” 

You snorted. “The frats are my best guess, complete assholes. Must’ve gotten to your head about letting loose, stupefying yourself… somethin’ like that.” 

He chuckles, ending it in a brief dragged-out sigh, sincere and throaty, his lips left agape. 

“You know, they may not be entirely wrong,” he ponders aloud, eyeing your doe gaze before aimlessly staring ahead. “there’s no harm in loosening up every now and then – but still, I fear the farthest I can go is alcohol.” 

“No girls?” you remark teasingly, tilting your head like a curious puppy. “That’s hard to believe.” 

The tease of a compliment causes him to roll his eyes in a light-hearted manner, his head sloping back down to stare down at you as he’s left with a raised eyebrow – along with a small, stupid-plastered grin smudged across his semi-thinned lips. Focused. strange, charming, loser of a man he was. It was probably just the alcohol really enhancing on his actions and speech, but who was he to not take advantage of such abilities? 

In some subconscious portion between his assumed temporary self-confidence and original, reserved and sweetheart-of-a-man self; an arm reached around the expanse of your back, keeping you close to him in a fragile way of handling you. His hand had itself in your hair, lightly toying with the satin material of your ribbons in the most tender way possible. 

There’s evident potential amidst the both of you – he knows it, and you know it. 

“Not so hard to believe when I'm talking to one right now.” he comments, blinking at you with a subtle smirk. “I've never told you or anyone this but… god, you’re a beauty.”

His flirtations were kept sweetened, innocent and a tad shy still. He's pleasant enough to converse with rather than fraternities. They weren’t much of empaths, just insufferable pains in the asses. Turning girls into their insignificant wet dreams. At least König beat the poorly-set expectations of getting together with a man like that as a last resort out of you, a chance at more ideal circumstances. 

You found yourself enamored with the guy the second you walked into this party – gaping over at him through the corners of your eyes across the room, across campus, – and now, without a train of moral thinking in your head,  you’ve got yourself in the same position like every other girl at a college party; settled in some handsome stranger’s lap, and making out with him your life depends on it. The last thing you remembered was the way his words in the form of a compliment came to you, before you had your legs rested on each side of his spread legs and large hands caging gently at your waist. 

It’s an ambiguity as to how quickly your body molds into his, ridges and curves sculpting as if they were familiar to one another, almost like they were predestined to attach like a hidden prophecy. His kisses are a far cry from how you initially expected them to be. (unfortunately rough, messy, just like how you’d seen your friends get it on with their boyfriends.) 

A heavy hand palms at the back of your head while the other is left at one side of your hip – the cushion of his lips meeting yours with a lenient, mutual desperation. You barely know anything about him, yet here you are caught in this trance of letting him take guidance in this, all you’re doing is pursuing in whatever he does. Your arms wrap around his neck, chest rising and falling against his as the intimacy of the kiss begins to naturally register in your brain. He had you in the palm of his hand, clearly. 

You’re so deeply in savoring the exhilarating taste of him that it was beyond your realizations he’s up and lifting you off of his lap, instead leading you on with only both of your arms clinging to one of his own – leaning onto him in a love-drunk predicament. You could’ve sworn he was looking down at you with the most adoration you’ve ever seen on a man’s face, nothing surprising when he was being the right amount of considerate to accompany you back to your own dorm – to lose his heart’s worth and devotion to. He had such a pure heart, virtuous even. That is, until you’re at the foot of your door, and you’re unlocking it without a realistic thought in mind – were you really this yearnful? – lacing fingers with a foreign individual, breaths lost in a slight stagger until you’re swinging the door wide open and stumbling inside along with him. 

It’s when your legs wrap around the dips of his hips, and your arms once more caging in framing his neck, you definitely knew that this was something beyond casual. He ghosts kisses against the course of your jaw, trailing down to your neck, a hungering fluctuation. Your head is leaned backwards, body held in the confines of his towering-self and the solid wall; truthfully, it was a reality of euphoric suffocation with his hand gently resting around your neck and the whole situation with him and the wall, fingers resting on the skin for some stability rather than the purpose of choking you out. 

In all of his honesty, he doesn’t know where he’s obtained this abrupt ability to turn such a pretty girl into a melted pile of mush in his hands, considering his substantial lack of experience. However, he couldn’t deny putting it to good use. 

With a share of his hoarse huffs and your choked-up intoxicated sighs, he rounds the corner of your living room area and nearly trips over the threshold of the bedroom bringing you into it. You project your gaze onto his face – and bizarrely, find that you are unable to stifle a smile at the sheer sight of him, girlish and one possessing the aspects of authentic love, a rosy color blooming across your facial features. He cups the softness of your ass beneath the stretched material over your skirt, chuckling beneath his breath at the show of flusteredness occupying your face. He pecks chastely at your forehead before laying you down in the center of your mattress, hunched over, affectionately trailing his lips across the stretch of your shoulders and collarbones. He's gentle, stroking at the outlines of your sides soothingly, getting your heart-rate spiking and the blood in your veins pulsating, reveling in a newer warmth. 

“You might just be the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen,” he says to you in a hushed voice, palming at the dough-like flesh of your breasts through your top and bra before shedding them off of your chest. He stares dumb-founded at the caused nudity, his eyes downcast and a slight bob in his adam’s apple. “you must really like me a lot to let me do this to you, huh, prinzessin?” 

You bit the region of your lower lip, teeth sinking into the kiss-swollen rawness while you nodded your head, eyelashes fluttering up at him. “Like you so much, König. I…” you swallowed, brushing the back of your hand against the contours of his face. “I think you’re the sweetest guy in the world.” you finish breathily, eyes half-lidded in a sensual-ardent craze. 

He kisses your knuckles, and then the area beneath. “Yeah? I've got a bunch of feelings about you too.” König says, his hands now finding their way to the edges of your skirt and pulling the piece of fabric down to discard on the floor next to your bed.

“Really?” you respond with a ditsy little smile. 

A small smile creases his lips. “Of course I do. How do you think we’ve even managed to end up like this in the first place?” he says, “Feelings and a beautiful girl do have their tolls on a man.” 

And there is when those carved, rugged hands of his do the most predictable; fingertips over lace and hooked into the waistband, dragging down that last article of modesty down and giving him a full worth’s perspective of the girl he had longed after, and not so shamefully, fell in love with in a single night. Desperation is put at the forefront of his mind from this point and on – since the manner of which he plants his knees into the mattress and nestles himself in between the spread of your legs that now rested curled and caging around his hips was something truly explicit in nature. 

Calloused fingers slip between your thighs within a matter of a few seconds, the pads of his fingertips massaging from your clit and right to the center of your puffy folds, glossed over with copious amounts of your slick. Your benefit of bringing him right back to your dorm room, a man with an eagerness to pull an orgasm out of such an angel of a girl. 

König has that terminal objective in mind as he observes the way your lashes flutter over your lash-line, his index and middle finger extended  – pressing against your clit and moving with just enough pressure to draw a few gasps and softened mewls from your lips. You’re left writhing on the sheets, hips elevated off of the bed due to the sensual arch of your back, and panting out his name so pathetically your own voice was far from recognizable; like you would lose all genuine sanity if he wouldn’t just get straight to the point.

To your luck, he doesn’t hesitate – because he to is way too pent-up, and in some dire need of simulation – and disengages his fingers away from your pulsating cunt just to lock your legs in two muscular biceps, his head finding its own heaven right there in between your squeezing thighs wrapped around his head. Drills his tongue into your silken walls and gives you the blissful sensation of being stuffed full with just that. He’s only ever seen this in the casual porno here and there, sure, but the real thing was something distinctly new to him; made him feel like not a beginner, but more on the side of heavy experience on knowing how to coax a pretty cunt to open up for him. 

You feel his stubble graze over your sensitivity, and the curved ridge of his nose bumping right up against your clit additionally. A union near impossible for your cunt to not squeeze around his tongue that was so expertly getting you stupefied for him in all the right ways – it was overwhelming in some sense, but you would surely not be lying if it you said that König, withdrawn and mannered-craze, had definitely ruined you for any other man on sexual terms. 

“Doing good up there so far, engel?” he asks, a slight growl to his accent with the muffle of his mouth stuffed of you. 

“Yes! just… don’t stop, please,” you manage to whisper back breathily, fingers lacing and gently tugging through the now-unkempt bits of his hair. “feels so good.” 

Your mouth is left open, head slanted back, and your doe eyes now hooded-over as you gazed down at where his broad, large figure had resided. His tongue fills you up, plunging in back-and-forth motions until the messy combination of his spit and your arousal began to make a soaking mess right between your thighs, drooling down your skin and collecting in a small pool underneath you in a lewd sight. He’s got you quite literally trapped between this bordering exhilaration of his euphoric ministrations and his rooted physicality below you. 

He’s rather sloppy with how he’s eating you out, lips kissing at your folds in a near-disgusting-erotic implication of making out with them. You feel the warmth of his breath against you; the coarseness of his stubble simultaneously pressing there. He drags the muscle of his tongue over your clit repeatedly, his gaze fully focused on the overwhelming neediness that was slowly beginning to dissipate your natural consciousness. At this point, his cock was straining up through his boxers and the suffocating fabric of his jeans – albeit his belt being undone and his pants pulled down to only his hip-bones in a poor attempt of getting them off. 

On your end, you were submerged in the hands of his treatment. Your glistening, doe eyes glazed over with arousal and the small bits of wetness gracing the lengths of your lashes. Your lips are kiss-swollen and tinted a faint blush-red, lip gloss smeared at the corners and difficult to really make-out if it was really product or the residue of his own saliva from his sensual, hungry kisses. Your hands rest on top of his that were keeping your thighs parted – that is, until he fully registers your touch and instead keeps a gentle hold on both of your hands amidst the intimate scenario. Large fingers laced with your manicured ones, his thumbs drawing small circles into the forms of your knuckles poking out while his sweaty palms lovingly press up against yours. 

König’s going down on you like his life depends on it, some excessive lapping and kissing, over and over again. one of his hands release from yours, two of his fingers nudging their way into you beside his tongue – a stuttering in your breathing patterns to accompany the fucked-out expression of your pretty, ruined face sleeked with sweat. You’re fully convinced that was the peak of your euphoria, cunt squeezing so firmly around his tongue and fingers pumping without pause, hitting that sensitive spot of nerves. it was a requited sentiment – his rigid cock aching to be freed from their denim confines, your cunt dripping out of neediness and warmth – and you both knew it, though not verbally expressed, that you needed one another to really get down to being the pinnacles of each other’s deepest physical wants. perfectly-timed. 

It's not long before you succumb to his doings, hips lifting off the mattress a few inches and squirming against him, hand tightening to his as your mouth locks in a momentary position of being hung open, and nearly all the possible sounds of an orgasmic reverie pulling from your throat. König kisses against your folds, more delicately this time, then grazing his lips up to your pelvic bone and worshipping the skin there. Slow and sensual. A tender contact to contrast the aftershocks of your release you were still inevitably riding out at the moment. Your cunt flexes around his remaining digits one last time, before softening and releasing; he takes this as a sign, hesitantly pulling out with a coarse sigh. 

He sits on his heels, durable hands easily maneuvering your body to his chest and sitting you up against the nude sturdiness of himself. “You put on quite a show, don’t you?” he muses, kissing the side of your head with the smoothest of pecks. 

You arch your back into him, entire head mentally stimulated on all of him. “Where'd you learn how to do that?” you question, mildly-dumbfounded and wallowing in his sexual expertise, dexterity. 

“That's for me to know, and you to find out, meine liebe.” he teases to you, rubbing the tip of his nose against your scalding cheek. 

You huff out, rolling your eyes. Cheeky. “Then… enough chat and let me ‘find out’.” you bit your lower lip at him enticingly, sore cunt almost-instinctively rubbing up against the erected, center portion of his jeans and staining the fabric with the pearl-esque mess of your arousal. A whine, docile and lenient, comes from you at the grasp of understanding what you were doing. König’s aware, too. None of you were a cut above. An orchestration of deep groans and much more higher, feminine sounds of an equal intoxicating high. The denim deepens in its color, thanks to that pretty little thing at the core of your legs painting all over it. 

König’s a big man, and a strong one at that. (for a nerd like him, he’s awfully muscular. has he got a side hustle? it really makes you wonder.) So, what kind of a man would he be to deny giving you just one more fuck? A genuine one, one that could really make you fall head over heels for him and have your little heart beating for him days after this night. 

He can just see it in your dolly little eyes, lashes batting at him while you were sat, naked, grinding on his lap like a bitch in heat, waiting for him to just do something. Anything at all. Before he knows it, he’s almost immediately giving into you, hands ridding the rest of his clothes and fishing out his fat cock from the last remnants of material. 

His cock smacks against the lower region of his abdomen once released. Bulky and heavy. In this state of a longing, aphrodisiac-like crave, the veins adorning him are more prominent, the blunt head leaking of an abundant quantity of pre-cum and decorating his subtly-tanned skin. The sight has you flushing and sent straight to a mindset of dumbification, some place where you’re pliant and completely in love with all of him; his seraphic body of masculinity seemingly crafted by the gods themselves, the profuse amount of worship he held for you. It’s almost comical how fast it’s taken you to fall for him in such little time. 

There’s so little to do now except to take you in position, give you the satisfaction of an unconditional, non-negotiable fuck out of reverence. You’re given an eyeful of him once he turns you around, bending you over to linger above a disheveled bed – a safe haven made up of a messed, cum-stained mattress. He’s seductive, obviously, otherwise you wouldn’t be all vulnerable for him right now; fucked-over with the case of an ample heart, and an ache in your pussy – is this really the effect of a hunky-loser austrian had on you? No complaints. The guy’s sultry in his own way. 

He's as tall as always behind you, even on his knees. menacing, gentle bastard. His hands find a purchase on either sides of your bare hips, fingers molding into the flesh. A place carved out just for him. Sturdy hips attach to the fullness of your ass, sweat-on-sweat; has you whining beneath your breath like a sniveling dog, especially when the lips of your puffy cunt cushion the length of his cock as he slides in between yours folds  – collecting slick, an audible squelch from the mess reverberating through your heated ears. The flushed head taps against your swollen clit before gliding into you with precision. Your back automatically forces itself into a deeper arch to push back against him, arms encased to one of your pillows to which you muffled your incoherent pleasure-made sounds. 

Your once-stubborn pussy, now so well-trained to be compliant for him, took in his shallow thrusts. Not much, but what was there to expect? A rough fuck wasn’t your thing – and a majority of campus’s male population wouldn’t even put a girl’s vulnerability during intimacy in the forefronts of their minds – so you were thankful for him. 

“Christ, you’re huge.” you nearly sob out in a whimper, with the divergence of a dumbified, slack grin on your ruined lips. 

He grunts, “Takes a little to get used to, eh?” the smack of a kiss lands against the face of your right shoulder. “You doing okay? Could always eat you out again, y’know… doesn’t hurt to.” 

“Yeah – yeah. I’m fine,” a small gasp leaves you, unfamiliar with something so foreign filling your guts up at such a pace. “fuck what I feel, god, just fuck me.” 

He rubs the sides of your hips with his thumbs, stilling within you, and slightly hunching over in position – the chiseled and softened fat of his torso rubbing up against your sheen, curved back, his hands falling from their grace at your hips and instead settling between the crevices of your smaller-in-size fingers. They lace like ribbon through eyelets, fingertips pressing down intently at the tops of your palms, and his head plummeting to the curve of your shoulder to your neck where he conceals his face with ease. 

His thrusts are no longer those of a gentle, bonafide lover, but instead restored with something more starved – like he’ll die a poor man if he doesn’t modify your insides into the shape of him. 

“Jesus, you’re fuckin’ wet, engel.” lips pucker and latch onto your neck for gentle caresses, “You needed this, can see it in – Scheiß – those little eyes. “ 

“Mmph – yeah.” you croak out, throat hung out and dry. Sandpaper for a throat. 

“Smart girl. you love me, huh?” König forces you into a deeper arch, coercing that love right out. No oral communication needed. He collapses further ove you and takes the angle of your chin, tilting it in a fragile-hold from the pillow as he holds it up – right enough to meet his dilated, enveloped-of-eyelids gaze. so he takes advantage of this posture and kisses you and shares the taste of him, licking you, worshipping you, tongues overlapping one another right about to define the proximity; pistoning, widened hips and a malleable receiver. 

Then you do the sluttiest thing a girl like you has ever done – grind your hips back onto the canvas of his crotch, his single hand holding you tight against him, rubbing intermittently across your lower stomach when he shifts all his of his focus onto his calculated motions and the way your cunt drips onto him. Down the length of him all, and discarded below to the sheets. 

He's so explicitly hard he could feel it all around him, his muscles, his throbbing head, and you’re no better, squeezing him so tightly that he’s suffocated. The good type of suffocation, one that makes you feel like you’re all blissed out. It’s one whole mass of flesh and intimate rapture. He thrusts harder, squeezes harder, and you continue to grind back onto him – the cycle continues, dragging on and on, and you’re aware this is no longer some hook-up – it’s gotten way too intimate now to be classified as such. 

A string of higher-pitched yes, yes, yeses! are spoken like a prayer from you and your unable-to-be-shut mouth. And then, because he can’t really help himself anymore, he wraps his arms around your full torso and presses into you more, thrusting and thrusting to the point where he’s too psychologically stimulated on sex, fucking you, desperate, adoring, each motion enhanced with the softcore-aggressive, dragging, shoving, capture of this fragile body of yours. The pressure’s a give-and-take situation on you and him. 

You;re inclined to a drawn-out call of his name as he drives all mustered force right into you, nails clutching crescents to the surface of stained linen, and your cunt coating him in that same wetness that’s been drooling down your legs. 

König mutters a gruff fucking take it, prinzessin, before just one single plundering thrust for you to come undone, your orgasm so suddenly, so harshly, occurring out of you, a fervent gushing erupting. Man’s first one-on-one orgasm, and he’s just so managed to make you squirt. A madman, surely. Even he thinks it’s unreal – something straight out of his PC monitors, out of the porn websites he’s browsed when his hormones were on a high every other day; he’s a degenerate turned man-of-his-dreams. 

A soft cry is perceived from you as he grinds his hips once more, cock kissing sweetly up to your cervix, his pelvis rubbing into your pubic bone – and you mewl, orgasm dragging itself so needlessly that another surge of fluid spurts from you, painting his abdomen in an array of glistening transparence. He won’t stop, you think. 

That is, until he’s feeling all sensitive in his lower abdomen, sharp and tangible by a sensual inebriation. He pulls out – avoiding the next-few-days-consequence of knocking some poor girl up –  and cums across your folds, spewing lines; hot, scorchingly hot. “You’re something else,” he says, totally out of breath, exuding heat and sweating, rivulets tainting his skin of moisture. 

He’s an accomplished man now.

“So hard to believe you were a virgin before this.” you said, rolling onto your back, the side of your face smushed into a pillow, the quivering of your body signifying the aftermath of his relentlessness still existent. He’s laid down next to you on another pillow, staring blankly at the ceiling with an opened, heated mouth. 

“Porn’s pretty accessible, not that hard to pick up on some skills.” 

“Oh, you’re a perv,” you say, half-jokingly. “But what’s new? Can’t expect an innocent man anymore. Clean slate and all.” 

“It’s a fucked-up world, schatz. You’re just a little, eh… stupid, oblivious, when it comes to the male gender.” he shrugs. 

You smack him blithely on the bicep, a mock-irked expression to the ceiling. “You’re all sickos, that’s why,” you shoot back, “and I’m just a proper lady. I don’t indulge in such things.” 

“Proper lady my ass. You look the part, but anyone can see past those sweet ribbons and beady eyes of yours – minxy piece of work you are.” 

You pout. “You’re mean.” 

He turns his head to the side. “It’s all honesty,” he says, sitting up to the headboard and stretching out his aching shoulders. “And if you’re ever in the mood again, I’ve got my practice, and I can say – I’m not that bad at this whole ‘screwing’ thing.” 

Sighing, you rest your cheek on his slick thigh. “You make it sound like you’re just another campus-fuck offer,” you giggle sweetly, “What did I really do to you, König?”

"Nothing, nothing at all,” he responds, brushing your disheveled hair and making the poor attempts at adjusting your little girlish ribbons to their original state. “Other than having the most prettiest little thing at my disposal, nothing.”

© FAWNPIRES 2024 — AN EXPLICIT, MULTIFANDOM BLOG. copying, translating, or claiming any of my works is prohibited.

[thesiltverses]

Hey Jon! Looking for a bit of writing advice since you seem to be pretty good at this- How do you write metaphors without being too on the nose? It’s something I’m struggling with at the moment. Thanks!

I'm probably not the right person to ask this question because I have very strong and specific opinions.

When we talk about metaphors being too on-the-nose, I think we're really saying one of three things.

It's too obvious in the sense that it's been done before (e.g. an oppressed fantasy race being used as a catch-all metaphor for real-life marginalised peoples)

It's too obvious in the sense that it's offputtingly reductive and over-simple, either in terms of making the story and characters feel real, or as a tasteless misrepresentation of the issue it aims to address (e.g. an oppressed fantasy race being used as a catch-all metaphor for real-life marginalised peoples).

A century's worth of establishment critical analysis attempting to make sense of modernism and post-modernism has made us all hopeless idiots who believe an allegory is invariably no good unless it's buried deep in complex referentiality and can only be retrieved with months of study. (e.g. a very timely example - J.B. Priestley's An Inspector Calls, where the author uses the format of the detective mystery to address the role of the super-wealthy in social murder and make the case that it is every bit as real as lawless murder, is extremely on the nose! It's taught in schools because the message is very clearly spelled out! But that's exactly what it needs to be and it would not be better if it was subtler! Being on the nose means you've landed the punch!)

So for me there is no broad-brush answer, it depends very much on the position and role of your metaphor in the story (and so this answer is probably useless, again, without knowing the specifics). I'd begin by asking yourself the same question on two fronts: where does the metaphor take me next?

As the writer, does the metaphor give me more to play with, or is it entrapping me into an over-familiar structure or tropes? A much-discussed 'bad metaphor' right now is horror movies where the monster is Trauma...which then blocks the narrative into a predictable corner where the hero inevitably has to cathartically overcome the Trauma or it'll send the wrong message.

Correspondingly, as an audience member, once I grasp the metaphor, what am I going to feel other than 'oh, I get it?' Children of Men is too direct and on-the-nose to even be considered an allegory. Its extremely unsubtle and one-note depiction of a monstrous near-future Britain that's forcibly rounding up refugees fills me nonetheless with powerful emotion - with terror, with unease, with anger, with a faint hope in the kindness of strangers. But that's in the immense strength of its characters, its careful observation, and its tense action to make me care. By comparison, when a fantasy story has human bigots locking up impoverished nomadic elves or what-have-you, I usually feel absolutely nothing, not because it's too fantastical, but because the writer doesn't have any genuine insights or depth of empathy for the issue or the (in)humanity involved, and is instead just using the metaphor as a piece of worldbuilding shorthand to signal to the audience who is good and who is bad. (Some writers will then attempt to gussy up the metaphor by introducing moral complexity - oh, no, the elves have stabbed a random innocent human! - but this doesn't actually improve anything, it only makes the parallel ever more tasteless.)

[woradat]

For the ask, can I have IDW Prowl please? Maybe with with forced proximity that ended up with always thinking of the others/each others once they're apart? Hopefully it's clear enough, also love your works btw!!!

Loosen Close

SUMMARY – two cop in operation, with tension that no knife can cut through (pre-war)

PAIRING – prowl x reader

NOTE – that's clear enough, hope this one works for you! I spent quite a bit of time writing that scene, so I apologize if the rest of the writing looks bad (maybe not that bad, but still?)

⚠️ SUGGESTIVE THEME UNDER CUT ⚠️

The door hisses open with a sad wheeze. Inside: silence. Heavy. Uncomfortably well-organized silence. This is not a precinct that looks lived-in

No clutter. No discarded datachips. Not even a dent in the walls. Just a workspace arranged with such neurotic precision that it feels more like an altar than an office. One datapad lies exactly 1.75 inches from the edge of the table. You know because you’re already planning to move it—just to see if he twitches

And then you see him. Standing with his back to the door, arms folded, optic glow reflected in the screen of the crime log interface. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t greet you. Just simply say “You’re not Firstline”

Wow. Not even a hello?

“Observant” you answer, stepping inside like the floor might eat you “Firstline’s gone. Probably somewhere quieter. Like a burning scrapyard

A pause. A long, very precise pause

Then, slowly, too slowly, he turns. Takes one look at you like he’s scanning for structural flaws. You feel like an appliance he didn’t ask for but has to keep under warranty

“They assigned you”

You nod “They did”

“They know about your incident log”

“…Which one?”

“Stairwell collapse. Shot your own knee once during a ricochet misfire. Electrocuted yourself with a.. malfunction machine?”

“Okay, I feel like you’re cherry-picking the wrong highlights from my résumé” you mutter, stepping around a chair that’s somehow too centered to trust

“Statistically, your continued survival defies several probability models. I’m still reviewing for system error”

“Thank you. I think”

He picks up a datapad and hands it to you without eye contact “Three targeted break-ins at energy redistribution depots. Each two cycles apart. Entry logs spoofed. Surveillance corrupted. Item targets: high-grade cognitive chips. Not replaceable. Not traceable”

You glance at the file, flipping through logs “This smells like an inside job”

“Good. That’s what I wrote in the report you’re holding”

“…Oh. Right. Just testing you. Team-building?”

He doesn’t blink. You're not sure he can blink

They say his last partner quit mid-patrol Didn’t even finish the field report. Left a half-full energon cube on the console and walked out with that look—the one bots get when their processor hits the force shutdown limit for social stress “Said he’d rather transfer to the sewage grid patrol than work another cycle with that code-crusher” someone whispered earlier “Tried reformatting his own emotion chip to feel less rage. Didn’t work” And now it’s your turn. Because the universe? The universe thinks it’s funny

The second you step inside, your sensors protest

The place smells like ion dust and old machinery—coated in the greasy kind of silence that only exists in buildings where something went wrong slowly and nobody noticed. Prowl is already a step ahead

Typical. He doesn’t need to speak to issue commands, he just is one. Every footstep is calculated. Every movement filtered through about six levels of tactical foresight. You? You're doing fine—aside from almost tripping on a panel hinge five clicks back. You only caught yourself because he reached back without looking and yanked you upright by the elbow

You didn’t say thank you

He didn’t expect you to

Now you’re moving in formation, side by side in a corridor not wide enough for side-by-side. His shoulder brushes yours every other step. You try not to think about it

“Stay alert” he murmurs “I just picked up a weak pulse two segments to the west"

“…someone still here?”

“Or came back”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. You both hear it. A footfall. Then another. Close—too close

Before your next breath, his hand snaps out and grabs your wrist. Hard. And without warning—Your chestplate hits the wall of the maintenance recess with a muted clang

Cold metal. Uneven. Narrow

You barely have time to blink before he's pressed in after you—no room, no pause, no buffer. Just hard armor against softer plating, his pelvis plating, locked behind yours, angles slightly forward every time he shifts to adjust footing. Each movement earns you the press of his abdominal plate against the lower arc of your back, and the sharp, seamless motion of a mech who never improvises—unless he absolutely has to

His hand slams against the wall beside your head. The force of it sends a small shudder through the panel behind you. Not aggressive—just final. Like punctuation. Like a closing gate

“Stay still” Prowl breathes into the narrow air between you

You try

You don’t trust yourself to breathe

But he's pressed in so tightly that every micron of movement feels amplified. Your shoulders are squared against the curve of the wall; his chestplate flattens against your back, firm and unmoving. You can feel the subtle pattern of his armor ridges brushing yours—contours slotting into place by accident… or fate. His left thigh slots between yours, almost casually—but the angle is wrong. There's no space for him to plant his stance properly, so his hip drives into your lower side with each shift of balance, forcing you closer to the wall than you thought possible. To the point that you almost kiss it

And worse still. Your hands are nowhere to go. Trapped at your sides. Pressed between your frame and the wall

And he hasn't moved. Not really. Just that slight lean forward when someone stepped too close outside and when he did that his chest curves over yours —and in doing so, your backplate presses snugly into the softer seam below his collar struts. Just that tense press of his midsection into the small of your back when your balance faltered again —The corridor outside crackles with approaching noise. Footsteps—slow, dragging. Too close. Whoever it is, they stop only inches beyond the alcove’s divider

“..They’re scanning” he mutters, voice pitched so low it sounds like it belongs inside your processor. Prowl’s mouth is beside your audio receiver now, close enough that the movement of his lips stirs the faintest shift of air

His voice cracks at the edge—just faintly as his hand is shaking slightly. Not out of fear. But out of control because now you’re both aware of everything

Of the way your back curves into him. Of the way his abdominal plate locks against the arch of your lower plating. Of the brushed heat of his sparkpulse syncing too close to yours. You shift—accidentally—and that small adjustment causes his torso to slide down just slightly, armor grinding slow over the base of your back

You hear it..He hears it

His other hand comes up, quick, firm, and lands on your waist—not gently. Not by accident. He doesn’t move it

“Don’t do that again” he hisses under his breath. It should sound commanding. It doesn’t. It sounds shaken. You try to retort. You do. You even open your mouth

Now you’re no longer just pressed against the wall. You’re bracketed. Encased. Enclosed. Caging. Pinned

Your voice falters before it makes it past your lips. But finally it came

“You’re crushing my hip actuator..”

“You shifted into it”

You swallow

His hand at your waist. No— now just below it. Palm splayed over your hip bracket, digit angled forward where armor meets the side of your abdominal plate. Not quite suggestive. Not quite innocent. And his thumb? It moves. Brush slowly, tracing the ridge just above the joint of your hip. Hard to tell whether it was intentional or an accident when he only did it once

Your field flares—just slightly, but enough that you know he feels it. He doesn’t comment. But his own field? It hums. Subtle. Coiled

“They’re gone, we're clear” he says at last. But he doesn’t step back. You can feel the restraint in him. The way every servo is holding position by willpower alone. His head lowers beside yours, lips dangerously close to the edge of your head

Your vocalizer stutters back online “..You can move now?”

“I know”

—

You sit at your terminal with a energon cube, pretending to go over surveillance logs. The lights above buzz quietly

The precinct’s unusually still. You should be feeling good. You cracked the case. You made a clean arrest. No injuries. No screw-ups. Not even a misfiled datapad this time. And yet—Your field still stutters every time your thoughts drift back there. Back to that narrow alcove. Back to his servo on your hip. Back to his frame pressed into yours like you were two puzzle pieces force-fit into one impossible frame. You groan quietly and bury your face in your hands

“I need to reboot my processor” you mutter to yourself “or smash it”

Because no matter how many times you try to drag your thoughts back to something else— they always slide back to him. The way his voice dropped.The weight of his chest plating against your back. The way he didn’t move until he decided to. You’re not even sure if you hated it. In fact, you’re very sure you didn’t. And that’s the problem

Meanwhile

Prowl stands at the end of the hallway, looking out the half-shuttered window

He’s not watching the traffic patterns. Not analyzing flight formations or reading case reports. He’s trying to process the fact that his body still remembers the exact angle of yours. And worse—likes it

He can still feel the curve of your back pressed to his chest. Still feel how snug your waist fit under his hand. Still remember the exact point of contact where your hip bracket slotted just slightly over his. Every time he blinks, the sensory map reloads like a damn glitch. He hasn’t been this distracted since training academy

“Unacceptable” he mutters under his breath

But he hasn’t filed a complaint. He hasn’t asked for reassignment. He hasn’t even deleted the sensor log from that sector of the depot. He tells himself it’s for protocol. Evidence integrity. Audit trail. But he’s lying. And he knows it

—

The next day, the paperwork and the results of the mission were all done, everything was done yesterday, which is expected when you work with regulations that have legs and a conscience, but you just got a message

Incoming message: Prowl

“If your balance actuator is still unstable, I can submit a requisition for maintenance diagnostics”

You blink at it. Then snort. Then immediately slam your hand on the desk and bury your face in your hands again “HE REMEMBERS”

And suddenly your core is on fire all over again

[transmutationisms]

wdym by "anthropology is a racializing discipline"? like i can guess what you mean by it but i want to ask to make sure my assumption is correct. and for elaboration bc i find discussions of anthropology interesting. also why was that professor so interested in the sokal hoax

oh i meant that anthro as a discipline is fundamentally structured around the presumption of the colonial observer -> is a form of knowledge creation that both depended on and informed colonial expansion -> both absorbed and informed racialising discourses as part of that process. like ok the reason you sometimes hear a phrase like 'internal anthropology' is precisely because the speaker is making a comparison between periphery–metropole anthropology & whatever form of observation (census collection, medical topographies, &c) is going on internally, usually but not always in a kind of rural– or exurb–city analogue. also you can see this wrt the distinction between sociology and anthropology, which does sometimes get blurry wrt social anthropology (phys anthro obviously just straight up textually openly racialising) -- ultimately if you're doing your observation as a part of the colonial surveillance process it's going to be considered anthro. tbh too you kind of have to track this by following the process of disciplinary formation over the 19thc -> where anthro separates out from sociology but also where it separates out from medicine & public health. but that's getting too long lol.

he was obsessed w the sokal hoax because he is a garden variety 'anti postmodernism' reactionary who thinks social constructivism is a cultural relativist plot to destroy Truth he sucks so bad and he's dutch on top of that. i had to take two grad classes with him and no one else would answer his stupid leading questions that have no correct answer so then i would try and be wrong and we would have battles of will for the next 20 minutes. also he scares all the undergrads so they don't go to him with questions and instead show up at the free grad student tutoring with their papers marked like 40 % begging us to help them pass 😬

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

theirs to share

a/n : jjk characters not mine. contains heavy lemons / mature scenes as the story progresses. reverse harem. femoc x nanami/geto/gojo. jjk alternate au. Wattpad Link : Theirs to Share || Story Masterlist : Jujutsu Kaisen

<…previous ... next…>

ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ

THIRTEEN

The fortress nestled deep within the outskirts of Tokyo had long since lost its intimidating aura. Once a forgotten relic of the jujutsu world, it now pulsed with quiet life and potential.

You stood just beyond the entrance, the heavy doors carved with protective seals sliding shut behind you. The hum of energy within the shelter was palpable—like a hundred sleeping sparks waiting to ignite. Geto Suguru stood beside you, arms crossed loosely, his expression unusually soft.

“This place feels... alive,” you said quietly, your eyes scanning the warm lighting, the open halls, and the rooms built like a school and a home.

Suguru nodded. “Because it is.”

He turned to face the central courtyard where several children played under the afternoon sun. Some were still hesitant, others open and laughing, testing their abilities with wooden training poles or chalk on the walls. A few stuck close to the teachers, wary but curious.

“When Master Tengen approved the use of this fortress, I wanted to build more than just a shelter,” Suguru continued. “I wanted it to be a sanctuary. A school. A home.”

You looked at him, admiration flickering in your eyes. “And you did. This is incredible, Suguru.”

His eyes warmed at the way you said his name.

“Yaga’s been a major supporter,” Suguru added. “He sees what this could mean for the future. Not just in power—but in healing. These kids… didn’t ask for what they were born with.”

You followed him through the hallways, past classrooms, small bedrooms, and open practice yards. A whiteboard in one corridor displayed the current assessment structure:

SHELTER SYSTEM: ASSESSMENT & INTEGRATION

Medical & Physical:

Lead: Ieiri Shoko 

Comprehensive physical health assessment.

Cursed energy influence on physical development.

Healing as needed.

Power & Control:

Lead: Gojo Satoru

Energy type classification.

Strength, stability, and potential tests.

Control exercises & risk evaluation.

Behavioral & Mental Health:

Lead: Principal Yaga

Trauma screening and therapy needs.

Social interaction observation.

Risk mitigation for high-volatility students.

Children with unstable abilities were closely monitored and given specialized treatment plans—some with therapy, others under watchful mentorship. The more withdrawn kids were eased in through play and gentle socialization, never forced.

In one of the smaller rec rooms, Nanami knelt beside a boy who kept creating sharp crystal formations around himself whenever he got nervous. Nanami calmly handed him a small book, sitting there and waiting with patient silence. The boy eventually sat too, mimicking him.

In the clinic room, Shoko sighed over a chart, her team of healers working efficiently to log results. She looked up and waved as you passed, tossing a cold drink your way.

“Don’t forget to hydrate,” she called. “It’s hell doing assessments with heat-exhausted kids.”

Further in the training yard, Satoru laughed, his blindfold pushed up as he levitated a group of kids in slow motion, letting them experience flight for the first time while keeping them safe in a soft field of cursed energy.

“They’re naturals!” he shouted proudly. “Some of these little gremlins might actually beat you in a few years!”

You rolled your eyes but smiled.

One of the girls near Satoru looked over and whispered to her friend, “Is that his wife?”

Suguru, beside you, smirked at your surprised blink. “Rumors spread fast around here.”

You ignored him, cheeks warm, and walked on—your heart full as you saw how everyone, from the strongest sorcerers to the smallest children, was fighting for something better. Hope. Control. Peace.

You stood in the center of the open garden, barefoot on the grass, hands raised with delicate control. The children encircled you, wide-eyed and breathless as you guided the elements like a storybook enchantress.

A soft gust danced through their hair as you summoned a miniature whirlwind that lifted flower petals into the air. With a flick of your wrist, droplets of water shimmered midair, catching sunlight like tiny rainbows. You weaved fire into harmless glowing ribbons and coaxed vines from the earth to twist into heart-shaped crowns for the younger ones.

“Wow!” one of the little girls gasped. “You’re a real fairy!”

“No,” a boy countered, “she’s a princess. The kind that saves people.”

You crouched down and gently placed a crown of living blossoms on his head. “You’re all the ones being brave,” you said with a wink. “I just know a few tricks.”

From under the nearby walkway, three sets of eyes were fixed on you.

Satoru, relaxed and leaning back with his arms behind his head, smiled with a mix of fondness and mischief. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again… she’s unreal.”

Nanami, standing with crossed arms, exhaled a quiet sigh. “She’s good with them.”

But his eyes lingered longer than his words.

Suguru said nothing, but the quiet intensity in his gaze spoke volumes—his posture softer, his usual edge dulled by the sight of you laughing and playing with the children like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Ah, young love,” Shoko murmured behind them, a cigarette lazily balanced between her fingers.

The three men stiffened in sync.

“What?” Satoru blinked, pretending to be oblivious.

Shoko took a long drag and shrugged. “Didn’t say anything.” Then, with a teasing smirk, she added, “But if I were a betting woman, I’d put my money on the one who actually brings her tea instead of flirting like a teenager.”

Nanami’s jaw twitched.

Mei Mei strolled by, long silver hair swaying, dressed elegantly even in casual wear. She peered into the courtyard with a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“Oh, my. It’s like watching three overly composed CEOs fall for a magical babysitter,” she whispered, sipping her tea. Then, after a pause, she added with a giggle, “Delicious.”

“She’s not just a babysitter,” Suguru said lowly, finally breaking his silence. “She’s…”

He trailed off.

Satoru raised a brow, curious but saying nothing.

Out in the yard, you had conjured a sphere of soft glowing light, letting the children take turns poking it like a floating bubble. They squealed with delight every time it bounced away gently.

“See what I mean?” Shoko said, exhaling smoke upward. “That woman’s a walking spell.”

Mei Mei chuckled again, this time more softly, as she watched you brush a bit of dirt off a child’s cheek. “No wonder they’re all smitten.”

Shoko blew a long, slow puff toward the sky. “Utahime’s going to kill us if we keep encouraging this drama.”

That night���

The air in Nanami’s room was still, only the soft clink of whiskey glasses and the occasional rustle of fabric breaking the quiet. Low lamplight cast warm shadows on the walls as the three men sat— Satoru, Suguru, and Nanami—finally addressing the growing, shared tension between them.

Their glasses met with a soft chime, and the moment hung between them—ridiculous, unexpected, strangely sincere. Whatever came next, they’d face it like men: united in confusion, in affection… and in anticipation.

“So,” Satoru started, stretching long legs out and leaning back in his chair, blindfold pushed up to rest in his hair, “are we just gonna keep pretending we’re not all in love with the same woman?”

Nanami sighed, slow and deep. “No. That’s exactly why I asked you both here.”

Suguru gave a quiet hum from his place on the couch. “It’s been a long time coming.”

“I still think this is insane,” Nanami muttered, though not with much conviction. “But fair.”

Suguru let out a dry chuckle. “So it’s settled then? It’s either all of us… or none of us.”

Satoru nodded, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Friendship pact. The sacred bro code.”

“You sound like a teenager,” Nanami deadpanned.

Satoru grinned. “Come on. It’s kind of romantic in a deeply dysfunctional way.”

“We’re not teenagers. We’re grown men,” Suguru said calmly, then added, “...who all want the same woman and are too emotionally fucked up to admit it properly.”

Nanami shot him a look. “Speak for yourself. I’ve been honest about my feelings.”

Satoru raised a finger. “Correction: we’re all emotionally fucked up in different ways. But hey, we’re making progress. We’re talking, aren’t we?”

Suguru hummed in agreement. “So now what? We made our pact. How do we pursue her?”

Nanami rubbed his temples. “With tact. She’s not some conquest.”

Satoru leaned forward, a little more serious now. “Exactly. We don’t corner her. No pressure. We just… show up. Let her feel it.”

“Let her feel that she’s wanted. That she’s loved,” Suguru murmured, gaze softening. “By all three of us. Equally.”

“She’s already so protective with the kids. And kind,” Nanami added. “It’s not just affection she gives. It’s care. Security. She’s built for love… I don’t want her to feel burdened.”

Satoru gave a wistful sigh. “She’s already taken care of so much. The twins, Megumi, the kids at the shelter. I don’t want her to feel like she has to take care of us, too.”

“Then we make her feel safe,” Nanami said plainly. “Wanted. Not overwhelmed.”

Suguru nodded. “We do what we’ve always done. But this time, with intention.”

Suguru leaned back with a mischievous grin. “So, we try it all. One-on-one time, individual efforts… flowers, coffee breaks, stolen quiet moments. Then we see what happens when it’s all three of us—together.”

Nanami raised a brow. “You think she’ll actually let us?”

Satoru smirked. “I think she’s already considering it. Remember what we overheard?”

Suguru’s lips twitched. “She did joke about having all three of us.”

Nanami lifted his glass again. “If it wasn’t a joke… then we’re in uncharted territory.”

“But if she wants all of us,” he added bluntly, “I will not fuck the two of you.”

“Hard same,” Suguru said.

Satoru, ever the chaos, shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind watching her be fucked by either of you.”

“And I’ll make sure to add any of you to my curse collection if so much as the tip of dick touches one of yours,” Suguru replied smoothly, without missing a beat.

That earned a round of laughter as they clinked their glasses again.

Then Satoru leaned forward, eyes serious beneath the messy bangs. “I wouldn’t mind… if she wants us to fuck her at the same time.”

Suguru fell silent, not because he disapproved, but because the image it conjured made his thoughts turn dark and needy. He didn’t speak, just drained his glass.

Nanami cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. “As long as it’s what she wants… I won’t mind.”

Their silence this time wasn’t from tension—but the heavy weight of real desire and uncertainty.

“She’ll let us know,” Nanami said eventually. “She’s strong. She’ll make the choice.”

“Until then,” Suguru said with a smirk, “we show her who we are. Individually. Together. Let her feel it.”

Satoru grinned. “No games. No pressure. Just all in.”

They clinked one last time.

“May the best... trio win,” Satoru added with a wink.

And the pact was sealed.

[internetgiraffekid1673]

Hook and Hearts

Heeeeyyyy. So @athena-xox and I were talking about how in Ever After High, the Queen of Hearts' advice to Lizzie warns her against friends but has a weird exception:

And then we decided the exception came about because the Captain Hook of her era was friends with her, and then this happened mostly against my will.

I think of their relationship less as a ship and more as Hook just regularly dropping in on Hearts to just chit-chat and get away from it all. I think Hearts definitely found them refreshing because Captain Hook has enough refined british upper-classness that they could treat her with appropriate respect and enough devil-may-care piratitude to not bother most of the time (and also to not be put off by the constant orders to behead them).

That means for once, Queen of Hearts got to have someone who liked her and treated her as a peer instead of a feared monarch, and it's good for her. For Hook, they got some lovely Wonderland insanity in their life, and a chance to not be in charge of anything, both of which were very relaxing from the stress of having a never-ending rivalry with a bloodthirsty immortal child (even in EAH when it's just a well-told story, that's gotta be exhausting).

You may notice this is in past tense. Thanks for nothing Evil Queen, you shattered both their hearts! :)

Also, if you can't tell, I headcanon Class of Classics Captain Hook as he/they nonbinary. Something that'll never cease to fascinate me is the gender roles in EAH Social Structure. Amongst commoners, they literally don't exist. Girl Pinocchio? Sure, why not. Literally nobody minds. Cerise can join the bookball team once the princes get over themselves, that's chill.

Amongst the royals though? Gender roles are so strictly enforced that fighting them is the major driving force of conflict for mutliple characters Most notably Darling, but it can also be observed in Dexter and Hopper's preferences for less physically oriented activities being a problem for them as opposed to Humphrey and Sparrow, who aren't expected to be able to fight dragons on a whim.

It makes thinking about which characters are trans and nonbinary and if and how they'd express that extra interesting! I tend to default to the same format: Commoners can be as loosey-goosey with their gender as they like, while Royals basically have to stay closeted or get labeled a rebel.

[educatedinyellow]

Fic recs, please! 6, 11, and 12?

Thanks for the ask, @sanguinarysanguinity! This got long, so I'll put the recs under a cut.

6. Recommend a fic that does something cool with format or structure (epistolary, social media, 5 things, non-linear, etc.):

I will start off with two fics from the vintage year of 2005 (happy 20th anniversary!):

Stimmed by anr (Battlestar Galactica): A oneshot set in the very early days of the show when the fleet is still desperately on the run from the Cylons and all the pilots are so sleep-deprived they can barely function. I like how the fic's short, disjointed sections evoke Kara's punchiness (in more senses than one), and its non-linear structure pays off beautifully in the closing lines. Plus it captures the combination of profound mutual irritation and vulnerable closeness that, for me, defines the Kara/Lee dynamic. An odd, sweet little story.

Sub Rosa by prof_pangaea (ACD Holmes): A telegram exchange between Sherlock and Mycroft over the Reichenbach hiatus, made special by the way the author designed each telegram like a piece of art. The story is told wholly through these images of telegrams from around the world, and the voice of both characters (but particularly Mycroft) is pitch perfect. You know me, I am a big Mycroft fan, and this story was probably the very first fic I ever came across in which the voice he had matched the voice I would have imagined for him -- gentle, caring, confused, exasperated, wry, and concerned. There's a joke about time travel in the author's note: she accidentally used a telegram form from the Soviet era rather than the 19th century, a fact immediately apparent to Russian speakers although it was not apparent to her until readers told her -- so now a little accidental time travel is folded into the middle of the story, which we all agree only adds to its charms :)

Subliminal by Speranza (BBC Sherlock): Thee Footnote Fic! A fun experiment into how one can use formatting to creatively showcase the speed of Sherlock's observations and the way he has multiple focal points of awareness at all times, and how one of those focal points is always, always John.

The Scientist by wand3rlust (fanvid, Battlestar Galactica): This is a Kara/Lee vid set to a song about going "back to the start." Not only is it structured in reverse chronological order, but it's the only vid I've ever seen that literally plays its footage backwards, each clip running in reverse like a rewinding tape. One wouldn't think that something that looks so unnatural could work to convey romance, regret, or joy, but in my opinion it works extraordinarily well. The vidder privated their channel, so this vid is no longer viewable on the internet. I had downloaded a copy prior to its disappearance (the link above goes to the mp4 in my google drive). I don't have any video player apps connected to my drive, so I can't test if it still works. But perhaps it will work for you on whatever video player you have on your computer. If you're interested to see it, I wish you luck! It has a special place in my heart.

Cinderwings by bendingsignpost (Supernatural): This fic is a delight in many ways, but as for the structure, it doesn't seem so unusual at first: it just switches POV between the two main characters, with Dean's POV always taking over with each new day and Cas's POV starting up every night. But there is a climactic moment in the fic where you find out what this structure has been designed to do: in the midst of a desperate battle, the clock strikes midnight, and suddenly the POV shifts from Cas to Dean as the next day has begun. It's a powerful twist of the narrative knife that plays into the tension of the scene as we lose touch with Cas just at the moment when he's in maximum peril. Well played!

11. Recommend a fic you think is a hidden gem/deserves more reads:

Oh, there are so many. Scanning through my bookmarks, here are some that I'm catching:

Watershed by finangler (Sherlock Holmes, original sci-fi AU): In the year 2207, John Watson went to war. I love the character voices and world-building in this! And it's rare to see a Holmes story that's not based on any extant adaptation. I've always really liked the creativity and sharpness of this fic.

Life by Elisabeth Writes/Elisabeth_H (Little Women, Beth-centric). Beth isn’t going to die, but what does that mean? An insightful fic about the quiet crush of self-denigration, and how hard it can be to grow into yourself when your anxiety is taken for piety and therefore encouraged by those who love you best. A striking look at a Beth who outlives her own expectations and learns the courage to walk toward a future rather than a farewell.

Calliope by Rheanna (Battlestar Galactica): "We're all family now." A look at the civilians in the fleet in the first days of flight as everyone tries to escape the Cylons. The show itself never took much time to reflect on the ordinary people whom the military and politicians were serving. This fic places them front and center.

Hero Worship by WWitch1997 (Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, Hercules/Iolaus): Hercules and Iolaus are forced to consider their future when one of them falls ill. An examination of the difficulties of aging and the mixture of confusion, resentment, love, loyalty, temper and persistence that comes when two people face a turning point in a long relationship and realize they can't quite go on as before. There is frustration and dread in the prospect of retirement, in moments of sexual incompatibility and dysfunction, in the fear that immortality might divide them, and in the opposite but equal fear that perhaps it won't after all. This is a fic that dwells in the ache of mudane sorrows and difficulties, but also shows how tenderly love can outshine them.

i trust the sanity of my vessel by karanguni (Batman comics, Dick Grayson-centric): Dick looks back, but mostly what he does is leap forwards. Short and lyrical, a light-hearted and sentimental slice of life. Some little turns of phrase have stuck with me a long time.

Escape Velocity by Vehemently (Firefly, Simon-centric): "I never saw much rain. Then I seen some, and it don't hold no fascination for me." Simon is unwaveringly protective of his sister, but sometimes his need to be in control -- combined with his memories of the younger, quite different person she used to be -- gets in the way of his ability to see and accept her for who she is now. This story handles all of that with admirable delicacy, sympathy toward all, and a vivid way of painting images across my mind.

Number 94 by tweedisgood (ACD Holmes): Appearances deceive. That is, one might say, their chief function. A funny yet yearning Victorian Holmes voice and an interesting look at Kitty Winter and Violet de Merville making their own way in the world as a team. Tweedisgood always includes fascinating Victorian details, too, in this case a glimpse at the booming women's wig industry.

Autumn in Wimpole by sans_patronymic (ACD Holmes): Watson struggles to uncover a mystery in a seaside village. Holmes is less than helpful. Oh, how I love an aging couple, one of whom is trying to trundle through a minor mystery while the other cheerfully obstructs! There's banter and grousing and deeply familiar affection on a dreary day in some small seafront town in the off-season. The details of the setting absolutely make this fic -- you feel like you're there.

No Little Charity by perspi (House MD, magical realism): It was an old ritual, old magic from before the world had rational explanations and cold science. Cold science had failed House; Wilson had nothing left to try but this. A bittersweet and deeply empathetic story in which Wilson finds a way to take House's pain and injury upon himself. He thought that would be that, but the complications of bearing this pain bring out new sides to both of them.

The Camford Dares by writerfan2013 (BBC Sherlock): Sherlock is being mysterious and secretive and John is being particularly stubborn and their annoying case in a well-known university town is not helping anything. Case!fic! Mystery and infuriation but ultimately Johnlock. To be honest, it's been a long time since I've read this one, but I remember it as a clever, admirably well-written fic that combined casework, character study, and romance in what seemed to me an excellent balance.

Green Improbable Fields by evadne: (BBC Sherlock) Sherlock works out what he needs to be happy. But he knows he doesn't deserve it, and he certainly never expects to get it. My first encounter with a fic about queerplatonic friendship. It struck me then, as it does now, as lovely and wistful and real. Oddly enough, what I remembered most were its words about forgiveness.

12. Recommend a fic that formed or changed your opinion on something (characterization, backstory, relationship, etc.):

Hmm, the stories that spring to mind first for this question are stories focused on characters I either didn't take much notice of, or kind of disliked in the original source material, but came to appreciate through seeing them more fully realized.

Amateur by fahye (Battlestar Galactica, Kara/Lee endgame, Sam Anders-centric). I didn't like the unhappy marriages and infidelities and miseries and contrivances of the four-way love triangle between Kara, Lee, Sam, and Dee on the show. I think it was handled badly. So I was very pleasantly surprised to find a fic that unravelled that particular knot in canon with kindness, affection, and respect toward Sam and Dee, and a keen observational eye on Kara and her emotional tripwires. This is a story that introduces us to Sam as a more complete person, a person finding his way toward his own sense of purpose.

Jason and Me by David Hines/hradzka (Batman comics, Stephanie Brown-centric). I had no opinion on the less popular Robins before reading this fic. But this humanizes and deepens them, makes you care, and makes you sad about the way fandoms can sometimes give the impression that there is Only One Best and everyone else should just go home. This fic instead embodies the true 'Two Cakes!' spirit, which is indeed the Batfamily spirit. It's also engaging gently with the weird and kind of uncomfortable bit of fandom history where comic book readers were asked to vote on whether the 15-year-old Jason character would live or die, and they voted to kill him. I believe this fic was written only shortly before Stephanie, too, was killed off in the comics due to lack of immediate popularity, which makes it all the more poignant. (Both deaths were later reversed, because that's what comic books do, and this fic is the reason I care enough to be glad about that).

As for creating backstory, there are a couple of Inception fics that did a lot of heavy-lifting for me. That is a movie in which almost nothing is established about the characters outside of their jobs, and it's a fandom that I got into because I wanted the backstory of Arthur's friendship with Mal and Dom.

Elevator Down by vikki (Inception). Arthur dreams up paradoxes. Cobb dreams up his late wife. One of these things is not like the other. One of these things is not safe. I just really like the way this story seizes on the idea that the violent, frightening version of Mal who appears in Dom's dream-world is not actually a shade of her, but instead a shade of *him*; it's the facet of Dom's subconscious that is suicidally guilty. On some level, Dom knows that Arthur is the person doing the most to keep him alive, and because a part of him doesn't want to stay alive, Arthur becomes the target of increasing violence in their shared dreams. It's a premise that adds a missing layer of emotion to the situation we encounter at the start of the film.

Presque Vu by rageprufrock (Inception, Arthur-centric). This is generally considered a masterpiece of this fandom and the definitive backstory fic for the film, all of which praise it deserves. But the main reason I love it is because I love Mal and Arthur's friendship, and this fic has so much time for them. It truly builds them up, makes me feel how vital they are to each other and how much their history matters, and how lost Arthur becomes when he loses her. In the end, though, it's also about moving through grief, second chances at love, and growing into oneself.

[mrjoshisattvablack]

Autistic Identity and Pure Awareness: Why Autism Disrupts and Redefines the Nature of "Self" 1. Autism = Reduced Social Conditioning Filters Autistic brains filter less social and emotional data automatically.

This creates: More raw, unprocessed perception. Less unconscious acceptance of societal norms and roles.

Result: Autistic individuals operate closer to a state of pure, first-person awareness rather than a "pre-built" social identity.

They experience reality directly, without the heavy subjective overlays most people internalize. 2. Identity Formation Becomes Fluid, Not Fixed Typical identity is built by absorbing cultural scripts.

Autistic individuals: Question, ignore, or fail to internalize those scripts. Are less anchored to artificial social categories (gender norms, career labels, status games).

Result: Identity feels fluid, experimental, or undefined, because the brain isn't clinging to inherited roles. Self becomes a dynamic process rather than a stable social product. 3. Heightened Sensory Processing = Direct Connection to Present Moment Autism often comes with hyper- or hypo-sensitivity.

This: Forces constant grounding in the now (because sensory input is overwhelming or primary). Disrupts the mind's ability to live fully in abstract, future-oriented identities.

Result: The autistic self is tethered more to presence than to narrative self-construction. Existence is experienced as a point of awareness moving through flux, not a solid "character" moving through a script. 4. Reduced Attachment to Ego Constructs Autistic cognition often shows: Less natural drive for status acquisition. Less instinctive manipulation of social perception ("masking" is a learned, exhausting behavior, not an intuitive one).

Result: There is less intrinsic investment in ego structures. The "self" is more often experienced as an observer than as a competitor or self-brand. 5. Metaphysical Implication: Autistic Minds Exist Closer to Fundamental Consciousness In spiritual models (e.g., non-duality, natural law, awareness-first philosophies): The "true self" is pure awareness prior to conditioned identity. Socially constructed identity is seen as an illusionary overlay.

Autistic minds naturally sit closer to that baseline: Awareness → Sensory Existence → Minimal Illusory Anchors.

Thus, autistic individuals embody (sometimes painfully, sometimes powerfully) a glimpse of what metaphysical teachings describe as the "original state" of being.

Summary Autism disrupts typical identity because autistic brains bypass social conditioning filters and operate closer to raw, present-moment awareness.

Identity becomes fluid, sensory, and dynamic — not socially scripted.

In metaphysical terms, autism places the individual nearer to the unconditioned consciousness that spiritual traditions describe as the true self.

[arylleth]

I’ve recently received some hate messages—completely misleading and unrelated to the reflections I share on my blog (which are anything but political; have you ever heard me talk about politics?). These messages made me think deeply about hatred, about how it has become a persistent part of our social fabric, and I came to the conclusion that it is a symptom of fragility.

The hatred that spreads today is not new, but it has taken on new forms: more viral, more visible, more legitimized. It is “liquid” hatred, to borrow Bauman’s term, because it no longer needs deep roots—it only needs a screen, hearsay, a spark. It is a phenomenon that spreads rapidly not because people are more evil today, but because the conditions for hating have become structurally more favorable. Donskis would say we live in an era of “moral amnesia,” where the capacity for empathy has been eroded by speed, distraction, and oversimplification. Hatred thrives where complexity is perceived as a threat rather than a richness.

In times of widespread anxiety, hatred becomes an emotional shortcut, a form of existential simplification. Its proliferation does not necessarily indicate an increase in cruelty, but rather a crisis in the psychological and cultural resilience of democratic societies. Zygmunt Bauman, in his analysis of “liquid modernity,” explained that in postmodern society, relationships become precarious, horizons uncertain, identities fluid. In such a scenario, hatred offers the illusion of sharp boundaries—between “us” and “them,” between right and wrong, pure and impure.

Leonidas Donskis, in his Power and Imagination, reminds us that hatred is not only a destructive force but also a pathological substitute for hope. When we are no longer able to imagine credible political alternatives or supportive communities, we retreat into defining the other as guilty. In this sense, hatred is the emotional revenge of helplessness.

Where does the fire start?

1. Existential Uncertainty We live in what Alain Ehrenberg called a “society of the fatigue of being oneself” (La fatigue d’être soi). People, forced to endlessly construct themselves, suffer under the weight of self-sufficiency as a mandate. In this context, psychological instability is no longer marginal—it’s structural. When the individual fails in the task of self-legitimation, frustration turns into aggression. The crisis of collective narratives—religious, political, ideological—leaves individuals naked before the chaos of the world, without tools to process fear except through anger. Byung-Chul Han, in his The Burnout Society, speaks of a transition from “virus” to “neuron”: we are no longer oppressed by authoritarian power but by an excess of positivity, performance, and self-assessment. Violence thus explodes not as transgression but as a side effect of individualized psychological pressure. Simply put: people live in a chronic state of insecurity—economic, social, identity-based—and when fear takes over, scapegoats are sought. The "other" becomes the target: the immigrant, the different, the poor, the feminist, the queer, the educated, the “weird.” Hatred becomes a way to simplify the world and feel on the right side.

2. Cognitive Infantilization Yascha Mounk, in his The People vs. Democracy, emphasizes how the simplification of public debate—driven by algorithms, sensationalist media, and digital tribalism—contributes to the erosion of democratic competence. It’s not just ignorance, but a structural redefinition of the culture of discourse, where complexity is considered elitist and doubt a betrayal.

As Umberto Galimberti observes, we live in a society that has replaced paideia (the formation of the soul) with training for competition. School, politics, and media tend to produce consumers and fans—not critical citizens. And without the ability to argue, only impulse remains.

There is a cultural regression facilitated by the media and political system. Public opinion is often fed on slogans, memes, disposable outrage. Depth is boring—and thus discarded. Idiocracy, as imagined by Mike Judge in his film, isn’t so far off: it is a dystopia founded on progressive critical disempowerment.

Idiocracy is not an extreme phenomenon but a pervasive process: it is the transformation of public discourse into an arena of moods.

3. Incentivized Polarization “Divide and conquer” today happens not only through political manipulation but also through algorithmic consensus-building. Social media platforms reward outrage—it is immediate, contagious, gratifying. Anger generates clicks, shares, visibility. A calm and reflective citizen is of no interest to platforms.

Byung-Chul Han puts it bluntly in In the Swarm:

“Digital culture does not foster a public space of reason, but a storm of emotions.”

In this storm, the powerful no longer need to censor. They simply keep everyone busy fighting each other. Debates around minority rights, for example, become weapons of mass distraction: important issues, of course, but instrumentalized to draw attention away from systemic ones—economic inequality, concentration of power, the climate crisis. Anger sells. A furious, but divided, people cannot organize. A society arguing over gender-neutral bathrooms or vegan meat won’t question wealth redistribution, manipulation of consent, or data abuse. As Han wrote, power today doesn’t repress—it seduces and distracts.

The exasperated and confused citizen becomes an involuntary soldier in superficial battles.

Have we become intolerant—or merely fragile? Intolerance and fragility go hand in hand. When fragility is not acknowledged, processed, or cared for, it becomes aggression. Umberto Galimberti, in The Unsettling Guest, teaches us that youth nihilism does not arise from a lack of values but from an excess of empty values—imposed without internalization.

We talk a lot today about inclusion but rarely practice radical listening to difference. The society of hyper-identities (ethnic, sexual, religious, political) has ended up erecting emotional and cultural barriers that are harder and harder to cross. Anyone who doesn’t fully conform to the code of their “group” gets expelled. Tolerance has become a posture, not a practice of doubt. We are not absolutely more intolerant. But we are less willing to tolerate what questions the ego. The performative individualist society—the one that tells you “you are special,” that you must always be right, that every critique is an attack—has eroded our ability to tolerate dissent. Dialogue gives way to confrontation because difference is no longer an opportunity, but a narcissistic threat.

And so, as Donskis observed, empathy has thinned out. It’s not gone—but it’s intermittent, selective, performative. No longer a human duty, but a hashtag.

Conclusion: What is to be done? Hatred cannot be fought with common-sense rhetoric, but with a care for the polis that begins by recognizing psychological suffering as a political fact.

Donskis left us with this warning:

“Kindness is the most subtle form of dissent in an inhuman age.”

We need a counter-pedagogy of empathy, complexity, and slowness. A rehabilitation of thought as a form of resistance. If we want to resist idiocracy and polarization, we must foster a culture of complexity—one that can recognize pain without simplifying it.

In a world that screams, thinking is already an act of peace.

Or at least, this is the conclusion I’ve come to. So, to those who are behind these messages that don't give me a chance to reply ( accuse me and then block me from talking? mature), I don't hate you, I feel sorry for you and for how you are instruments in the hands of political hatred. For anyone interested, I can share PDFs of the essays I’ve referenced, for educational purposes — not to harm bookstores or anything like that, but to expand minds, spark curiosity, and spread knowledge even to those who can't afford to buy books to save money, especially to those who can't afford them. I believe, now more than ever, that we need it.

Don’t be haters—be human. (Also, hate gives you wrinkles. Do you want wrinkles before their time and waste your retinol creams?)

[codingquill]

Why is landing an Internship as a Computer Engineering/Computer Science Student so hard ?

Hey there, dear coders!

I apologize for my long absence—life caught me off guard with a lot of work and projects. Now that I finally have some time, I wanted to make a post to connect with you all. Thank you so much for 1,000 subscribers! I know maintaining a community requires consistent posting, and I feel like many of you might have forgotten about me. But I promise to make something big out of this. I've been thinking about starting a newsletter where you can receive weekly emails from me, discussing something I learned that week or anything that intrigued me and I felt like sharing.

Now, back to our question: Is it really hard to land an internship as a computer science student? The answer is yes, and as a computer engineering student myself, I can attest to this.

I've often wondered why it's so difficult. After some observations, I discovered that almost every computer science student's resume looks the same. The portfolios are nearly identical, lacking uniqueness. If you've studied at the same school as your friends, what would make a recruiter choose you over them?

This is where uniqueness and a sense of self come in. Your portfolio or website should reflect exactly who you are as a person and highlight your strengths.

The second crucial factor is dedication. I've had classmates who are extremely dedicated. They might not have any special skills, but they show immense interest in what they want to do. This drive is palpable, and recruiters can sense it too.

Sometimes, the resume isn't even the most important aspect. For big companies like Oracle, what you say and know during the interview and technical tests matters more. The resume is just the very first step.

So, what I've learned along the way can be summed up in two words: uniqueness and dedication.

Now how to Create the Perfect Resume to Land an Internship as a Student ?

1. Keep the design simple:

Avoid extra designs or too many colors. While uniqueness is important, recruiters generally do not favor overly designed resumes.

2. Structure your resume properly:

- The Resume Header

Contact Information:

Full name and title: List your first and last name. Use the title of the role you want instead of your current title.

Professional email address: Use a clean format like firstname.lastname@gmail.com.

Phone number: Choose the number you check most frequently. Record a professional voicemail greeting if yours is too casual.

Address: List only your city and state. Let recruiters know if you're willing to relocate if applicable.

LinkedIn or other professional social media: Include your LinkedIn profile if it's active and relevant. List any portfolios or computer engineering-related sites.

- The Resume Summary

A paragraph where you describe yourself by answering these questions:

What is your professional style? (Use one or two descriptive words such as patient, critical thinker, consensus builder, excellent designer.)

What is your greatest engineering strength?

What will you add to this particular team?

What is your process for building and maintaining computer networks?

What are you proudest of in your career?

Example:

Motivated computer engineering student with a strong foundation in software development and solid analytical and problem-solving skills. Looking for an opportunity to enhance my skills in a challenging professional environment.

- The Employment History Section

Be specific about how you contributed to each position and the impact you made.

List the job title, organization name, dates of employment, and 3–6 bullet points showcasing your achievements.

Start each bullet point with a strong action verb like collaborated or designed.

Highlight significant achievements rather than just listing responsibilities.

If you have no experience, include a projects section. This will act as your experience. Highlight how you worked on each project and your passion for it.

- The Skills Section

Combine hard and soft skills. The skills section is often the first place recruiters look to ensure you have the key abilities they're seeking. Your entire resume should support the skills you list here.

- The Education and Certifications Section

List your education, including any relevant courses or special achievements during your degree. Also, mention any certifications you have, whether from freeCodeCamp, Google, Coursera, etc.

By following these tips, you can create a resume that stands out and showcases your unique strengths and dedication. Good luck with your internship search, and remember to stay true to yourself!

[grandhotelabyss]

LOL that 2007 Lynch critique, not because i find his work beyond critique, but why are turbo-leftists so miserable? how can one live like that? would you say that form of discourse was prevalent in your 00's intellectual formation?

That critique, as I was reminded by a recent Substack Note, is a vulgarization of Jameson on Lynch in Postmodernism, which I'd forgotten, since I haven't read that essay (or even seen Blue Velvet) in 20 years. I mention it because the answer to your question is yes, but I also got that style of criticism at its academic source in Marxist literary theory, not just from the first-generation blogosphere. I've long argued, even in my doctoral dissertation, that such criticism promotes too mean a worldview, almost amounting to a Hobbesian vision of life as scramble for power, to address what is beautiful and significant about the art it brings under its "demystifying" gaze. But I also learned something valuable from it—from criticism as practiced by figures like Lukács, Auerbach, Jameson, Eagleton, Armstrong, Žižek, and others—a portable method I could turn to other ends. Of all the theoretical schools one apprentices oneself to in the academic humanities, Marxism handles narrative best. It is best at describing conflictual change over time, whereas most other theoretical schools treat the text as a temporally suspended structure in space or temporally-coated timeless myth. The dialectical method lends itself beautifully to assessing the shifting tides of power and significance between the actors in a narrative and what these shifts mean if you collate them not only with whatever immemorial myth they undoubtedly echo but also with their local historical referents, and all the better—really, this should be the whole goal—if you can explain how these emplotments have their failed or successful corollary in the form of the work, everything from the placement of the commas up to the structure of the narration. I hope you can see how powerful a method that can be; it doesn't have to mean calling everything racist and sexist all the time in some moralistic way. Even in the 2007 critique of Lynch, I note the observation that the dream-logic surface form of the narrative, all its elements "quoted" from prior genres, is homologous with the economic shift toward financialization—value totally untethered from material production, as Lynch's films are not realist dramas aimed at verisimilitude and social change (the classic Marxist preference, of course) but dreamy artifice using cultural myth, rather than observed reality, as their materia. That observation qua observation can be cause for despair or celebration depending on how we regard the political and economic change, and can be used to promote left, right, or center ideologies—Fukuyama uses the dialectical method no less than Jameson—but literary and film critics who can operate on these two levels at once, the plane of the fictional emplotment and the plane of historical change, can produce powerful narratives in their own right. And sometimes, if I don't like a book or movie, I will still dismantle it ideologically with this technique, as with my Substack essay on The Brutalist this weekend.

[xenodelic]

Actually curious about your take on this. I have been bothered by MUD because I feel like it is the antithesis of antipsychiatric thinking, where disorders are coined based on new patterns of behavior to be pathologized -- and this pathologization is glorified, like in the case of the most popular one (fantasy personality disorder) taking what seems to be benign, if not normal, traits or traits of other conditions like MADD and explaining them in the frameworks of symptoms of a disorder as if it's a DSM entry... Many of these coiners don't seem to have a real understanding of how psychiatry works as a social system rather than a fun hobby. That's how I've been conceiving of it but I admit I really haven't looked into it too much (I think the tag "mud" is banned on Tumblr for unrelated reasons) so I'm curious to see if you all can help me understand it better?

Actually I think your observation/ critique is a very valid one. I do think many of the people participating in the coining of MUD (medically unrecognized disorders, for those out of the loop), are fundamentally upholding the structure of the psychiatric industry in the sense that they find new ways to pathologize human behavior.

However, we don't necessarily condemn MUD as a concept or community. We think that many folks in it are people who have been done harm or neglected by psychiatry, which is what has led them to coining new terms in the first place. I really doubt that someone who would identify as having Fantasy Personality Disorder, isn't genuinely struggling in some way that they feel isn't adequately addressed by whatever frameworks are currently avaliable.

We sympathize with that. Despite ourselves being heavily antipsych, we still strongly identify with the term DID because we feel it adequately labels our struggles with dissociation. For one reason or another, these individuals feel that in some way, the psychiatric industry has failed them. And their response to that is to create new terms within a similar framework to make up for those gaps.

We think that even in a hypothetical post-psychiatry world, people will still likely come up with terms to describe clusters of behaviors. If the term DID didn't exist, we'd likely try to come up with something to describe our struggles, because terms like "disordered plurality" don't cut it for us personally. There is an undeniable usefulness in being able to put a word on your experiences, even at risk of being reductive.

So overall, while I do agree that the MUD community has some issues with continuing the same patterns of pathologization. I think that it stems from the same issues that antipsych thinking does - that they've been failed and neglected psychiatry. I think they've simply chosen a different direction for how they respond to it.

In a way, one could consider the community based coining of new diagnostic labels as a criticism in and of itself. In the way it makes a parody of the supposed scientific, peer reviewed construction of diagnostic terms. It forces one to question what makes an "official" diagnostic label legitimate, as opposed to a MUD term. To us, turning it in a social activity is actually much closer to what we'd want to see in a post-psychiatry world. Where the creation of new mental health terminology falls to the community and the people experiencing it, as opposed to the hands of a beauracracy.

We do hope that those in the community read up more on antipsychiatry, and stray away from intentionally trying to copy the format and rhetoric of diagnostic manuals. I think they do this in an attempt to seem convincing in their legitimacy, but as you said it does unfortunately recreate some of the same problems that the current psychiatry industry has.

We think there's a lot of potential here for opening up questioning of psychiatry and pathologization in general, but there's a lot of work to be done for sure.

[potchatok-art]

Almost two thousand years have passed since the plague that decimated the populations of Sutviprra on the shores of the three lakes. The illness is a fact of life, and most Sutviprra and pet kúarruzèam groups - here called “nén” - survive by steering clear of the outsiders and relying on immunity. Their lifestyle is archaic, akin to the one that of their ancestor’s experience on the modern day Oujsooer desert. but now they have an ally - kúarruzèam alert them of dangers and potential camp sites, working somewhat like a service animal for generationally anxious sophonts. Relief from the worries frees up mental resources and allows sárrárr to observe, learn and interpret the world around them.

Rich mythos springs up from the observation of the nature around them. Lakes are important for life in a desert, so water is granted a fundamental role as the all mother and the patron of all life - náuynúvu, which created first community with the sun - ry'nzàum - a harsh teacher of life, moon - kyzerrèyn sóaevyàzayn, who was born male but after the creation had undergone protandry, a group of titans - ry'nóàm rrèaem - their image interpreted from the suspicious chaotic line of stone - glacial formation, the face bearer and a beauty patron ry'n sárrárrán and uninterested in the pleasures creator of mountains máarráavÿm ry'n vuzy'nóàm. Their polycule produced all known worlds, trees, animals and Sutviprra, be it because of phantasmagorical birth or miraculous creation. As the living walk this earth, so do the dead - there are claims of nèn sárráàm - army of the dead, composed of ancestors, as wise and as strong as they were in life. Rraeru, unfortunately, cannot enjoy a big company in life, so there is a promise of supreme union in death. Destitution and loneliness plays a big role in the culture, though one might theorize, how sárrárr is never alone. They see figures in the cracks of stone and eye-like structures on the bark of the coastal trees. Mòmárrárr jozén keep watch on their territory, will keep safe if pleased and will bring pestilence if angered. Most common dangerous critter for Sutviprra - hematophagic sóazèm - tic-like radiosimmetrical bug, dwelling on the shore of rivers and giving another test for Sutviprra’s immune system and hygiene tradition. So far, sárrárr use mud to protect their skin, hoping to close off the skin or deprive a sóazèm of air. Hygiene procedures are a luxury, affordable only on the settlements, under the watch of záyn zàurujÿm - the first evening star visible in the night sky. Her brother tùm ry'n ròm is not as reliable - this star travels across the sky, moving under the horizon and behind sóatevyázayn around the year.

Their spiritual belief is a reflection of their social structure. The nén is structured with an elder matriarch - náuyn - on the top, who makes the main decision after a discussion with other older members of the group - ty'nmezén, while parent age members look out both for the elderly and for the children. Both polyamory and asexuality are acceptable, though polyamory is permissible only with people who are higher in hierarchy and male asexuals are pressured to transition. If Sutviprra has a family member in the ty'nmezén, they are of the néunárr, they are considered more reliable and allowed to start polycules. Their children are brought up communaly, but their lineage is important for their status and who takes place in the ty’nmezén when the previous elder passes. There are also options to leave for another nén, but that makes you tùmròm and no longer welcome in this particular tribe. From there, splinterers can either start their own nén or join another one - they become sárrèmárr, treated with suspicion first until earn other’s trust, get invited into one of the polycules or start a family with another of your rank, in which case your lineage enters the institutions two generation later.

In this way Rraeru disperse over the southern shore of the lakes, split into Raeru and Ráàru. Raeru dwell on the Vuzy’fa shore, have a sporadic contact with Unu and even travel by boat, to the Jotèmeuzé, populations of which themself later drift from the original. Ráàru have a geographical access to the Jozén, but they are generally kept out of it by the indigenous sutviprra.

[rise2research]

Transforming Collected Data into Meaningful Insights

In today’s data-driven world, organizations gather enormous volumes of information every single day. From customer interactions and social media activity to supply chain operations and market trends, data is everywhere. However, collecting data is just the beginning. The real value lies in transforming this raw data into meaningful insights that can drive informed decision-making, innovation, and competitive advantage.

The Challenge: From Data Overload to Clarity

While collecting data has become easier thanks to advanced technologies, making sense of it remains a significant challenge. Many organizations fall into the trap of hoarding data without a clear strategy for analysis or application. This leads to "data overload"—an overwhelming amount of information with little actionable value.

To avoid this, businesses must shift their focus from the quantity of data collected to the quality of insights derived. This transformation requires a structured approach, sophisticated tools, and a culture that values data-driven thinking.

Step 1: Define Clear Objectives

Before diving into analysis, it’s essential to define what you want to achieve. Are you trying to understand customer behavior? Improve operational efficiency? Predict future trends? Clear objectives guide the entire process, ensuring that the data collected is relevant and that the insights generated are aligned with business goals.

Step 2: Clean and Organize the Data

Raw data is often messy—incomplete, inconsistent, and filled with errors. Data cleaning and organization are critical steps to ensure accuracy and reliability. This process involves removing duplicates, correcting errors, standardizing formats, and filling in missing information. Clean data forms the foundation for meaningful analysis.

Step 3: Choose the Right Analytical Tools

Modern analytics tools and platforms—like machine learning algorithms, data visualization software, and business intelligence solutions—make it easier to uncover patterns, trends, and relationships within the data. Selecting the right tools depends on the complexity of the data, the skills of the team, and the desired outcomes.

Step 4: Analyze with Purpose

Effective analysis isn’t just about crunching numbers; it’s about asking the right questions. Why did a trend occur? What factors are influencing customer behavior? What could happen if certain variables change? Purposeful analysis goes beyond surface-level observations and digs deeper to uncover actionable insights.

Step 5: Visualize and Communicate Findings

A brilliant insight is useless if it can’t be understood or acted upon. Visualization tools—such as dashboards, charts, and graphs—make complex data more accessible and impactful. Additionally, communicating findings in a clear, compelling way ensures that decision-makers can quickly grasp the significance and take action.

Step 6: Implement Insights and Monitor Impact

Insights must lead to action. Whether it’s tweaking a marketing strategy, optimizing a process, or launching a new product, the ultimate goal of data analysis is to drive improvement. It’s equally important to monitor the impact of these actions, learn from outcomes, and refine strategies as needed.

Conclusion: Turning Data into a Strategic Asset

Transforming collected data into meaningful insights is not a one-time project—it’s an ongoing journey. It requires the right mindset, tools, and processes, but the rewards are substantial. Organizations that master this transformation can anticipate customer needs, respond swiftly to market changes, optimize operations, and ultimately, stay ahead of the competition.

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