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“how to recognize AI in fanfic” — hey so this is another not-gentle reminder that AI stole from us. it’s using OUR words and OUR sentences and OUR styles.

writing “long” paragraphs is not a sign of AI — it’s a common narrative choice many writers make both in fanfiction and in traditionally published novels, and AI stole it from us.

using an em dash is not a sign of AI. it’s a stylistic sentence choice that’s been an option in place of commas and semicolons for a very long time, and AI stole it from us.

long sentence structures are not a sign of AI, but are yet another stylistic choice writers often make to create a cadence and tone that mimics the flow of poetry, and AI stole it from us.

“YA narrative breaks”? i don’t even know what the fuck this means, but i can guarantee that AI stole it from us.

italics are once again a stylistic choice that many writers love to use to create emphasis, and it’s a more stylistically acceptable and traditional form of emphasis than bold or underline text. oh, and just to be extra clear: AI STOLE IT FROM US.

stop creating fandom witch hunts over AI when you know fuck all about what it means to sit and write a story, and to spend hours fiddling with sentence structure and dialogue to get the exact right tone. writers will stop writing out of fear that their work “sounds like AI” — IT DOESNT! AI STOLE FROM US! AI SOUNDS LIKE US! — and after a while, all that will be available on AO3 is shitty AI-generated fanfiction.

because yeah, people are going to continue to use AI to write fanfiction whether you “call them out” or not. but making a laughable thread on X that uses asinine criteria is not going to fix that problem. it will just push the real writers out because people will accuse them of using AI when they haven’t, and they will (rightfully) stop writing for spaces that attack them.

anyway. fuck ai.

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I'll have more doodles soon, but in the mean time check out my next Ferngully doll!

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75 free to use hand refs for you! Use them however you want.

You can get all the high res files for free here ✨

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I just want to write my little stupid stories. please may I have one william dollars

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Gale of Waterdeep

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That one moment during the Volo scene at the goblin camp when everyone looks at Gribbo with just the most punchable smug face makes me laugh every time.

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Wrote some low effort dumb to distract from The Horrors.

Scratchmaker

Tav can't sleep. Scratch wants to help. Wizard ogling ensues. It is--and I cannot stress this enough--not that deep.

Mistress was restless again

Scratch lay curled at the edge of her bedroll, ears twitching at every sigh she breathed into the night. She turned over often, mumbled words he did not understand, and had kicked her blanket off every time he dragged it back over her.

He lifted his head and sniffed the air. Smoke. River water. Distant fox. She whined like she was afraid, but he could scent no fear. No hurt, either. Something was wrong—but not the kind he could chase away with a bark or a bite.

Scratch dropped his head to his paws and watched her. Whimper. Whimper. He knew that sound. Made it sometimes, when he thought of old Master. Missing—that was the word she had used. You miss him.

Mistress missed someone too. Sister; litter mate. She told him about her one night, to make him feel better. Less alone. She went to sleep like Master had: in blood and fright. Talking about it upset her. Made her cheeks wet. Salty and sweet; she’d laughed when he licked them. Mistress gave excellent hugs. Warm. Scratchy, like him.

That was some time ago. When he first came to camp. Lately, she had seemed…happier. Fewer tears. More smiles. Especially when the tall friend was near. With the fur on his face. Scratch liked him too. He gave snacks—bits of fat, bone too good for the cook pot. Something about him hummed—just beyond hearing. But he was kind. Gentle. Hands and voice. Gentle with Mistress. She watched him the way she watched music. Shiny eyes. Soft. Happy.

Maybe that was what she needed, Scratch thought. The tall friend to make her happy.

Quiet as a shadow, he rose and padded across the camp, weaving between tents. He growled low as he passed the pale one’s tent. Something bad in there. Meat gone rotten. Scary eyes. Hungry. Even the angry frog and the one with horns were kinder.

The tall friend’s tent flap was closed but unbuttoned—easy to slip inside. He was sleeping. Scratch nosed his ear to wake him; the tall friend grumbled, his hand blindly pushing Scratch’s snout away. He tried again; this time the man pulled his blanket over his ears, but still did not get up.

Scratch huffed.

If the friend would not come, perhaps he could take something to Mistress instead. But what? He snuffled among the tall friend’s pack. Books and bottles. A bit of bread—gulp. Snuffled deeper. The tall friend’s things smelled of many things. Storm air and fire. Meadow flower. Letters his old Master carried. Something else that made Scratch’s nose twitch like a coming sneeze.

His nose brushed against something soft. Rich with scent. This one has lain against skin.

Perfect.

Scratch tugged it free and trotted back to Mistress, tail wagging like a banner, proud of the prize he’d won for her.

She had shifted again, balled up in a tight knot. Blanket off; that’s all right. Scratch dropped the shirt over her shoulders instead. He sat and watched. Mistress was still for a moment, then murmured. A little sigh. Her hand found the shirt. Instead of throwing it off, she hugged it to her chest, like she sometimes hugged Scratch. Nuzzled into it. Still.

“Woof,” Scratch told her, soft as he could.

Mistress did not stir again.

Scratch settled beside her, one ear tipped toward the woods, the other toward her. He listened to her breathing slow. Her heart steady. He tucked his tail, lowered his head.

Eventually, they both fell asleep. ※ ※ ※ ※ ※

Tavania stirred, not with the startled jolt she was used to, but a slow bleed of awareness. The quarrel of birdsong. The endless fall of water over the ridge. The muted labour of her companions shifting to wakefulness: boots scuffing on, a pot clinking faintly. Behind her eye, the tadpole gave a lazy roll, like it too was stretching its limbs after slumber.

Scratch was pressed warm to her side, a comforting weight. Her hand drifted down to stroke his silky ears; he huffed, then rested his head on her knee. Her other hand toyed with the folds of blanket gathered against her chest. Only—it felt…different. Too smooth. Oddly lush. A downy nap tickled her fingertips, impossibly soft.

Tav cracked one eye, letting in slip of haze, and saw…purple. Rich, crushed velvet. A hint of silver embroidery. Then the scent hit her: lavender threaded through with warm, manly musk.

Her eyes flew open and she jerked upright.

Gale’s shirt. Panic rose, sharp and wild, as she pawed at it, turning it over like a bloody murder weapon. On the collar, a faint stain—the same shade ruddy shade she had dabbed on her lips yesterday, betraying exactly how close she’d nuzzled into it.

Her cheeks flared to match. “Gods above and below…How—?”

Scratch watched her with an expression she could only call smug, tongue lolling, tail drumming steadily.

“You—!” She jabbed a finger at him. “You did this, didn’t you? Little thief.”

He blinked, wagged harder, then looked deliberately away as if he’d never seen that shirt in all his life.

“Don’t you play innocent. You’re taking it back.” She held it out, shook it. “Go on.”

Scratch sniffed, then over like a sack of flour, his belly exposed as if expecting a reward.

Tav half-laughed. “Monster,” she grumbled—but rubbed his belly anyway.

She cast a furtive glance across camp. Gale’s tent stood quiet under the trees, still shaded from the slant of rising sun. If she was lucky, he was asleep. Maybe she could sneak it back before he noticed.

Right. Because the man who analysed everything would not immediately notice the creasing, the cling of her perfume—or that she’d apparently been sucking on it all night like a pacifier.

She groaned. What choice was there? Throw it into the river and plead ignorance?

Tav considered the notion with more seriousness than it deserved.

No. There was nothing else for it. Rising to a crouch, she hugged the cursed garment to her chest and scurried, clinging to the twilight shadows. Scratch padded happily after her with no such concerns for concealment.

Outside Gale’s tent, she froze.

Shuffling. Rustle of parchment, clink of glass, belongings overturned in impatient search. An irritated mutter:

“Where in the hells—?”

Of course he was up. To the dog, she mouthed a panicked, “Now what?”

Scratch tilted his head. Then, traitorous beast, barked. Loud. Gleeful. Once. Twice. A third time—each like a knock struck on Gale’s makeshift door.

Tavania shot him a hot glare as the tent flap stirred. Gale’s head emerged, hair loose and tousled from sleep, falling about his face. The sight of him undone carried an odd intimacy that made her heart lurch, guilt burning brighter in her veins. He blinked against the soft grey light. “What—?”

Then his gaze found Tav. Or rather, the shirt she held crushed in her hands.

“Ah.” His brows lifted, confusion flickering into recognition, and then, more dangerously into amusement.

He stepped out. Bare-chested, the morning chill raising faint gooseflesh across his pale skin, rippling through the dusting of dark hair. Her eyes snagged on the circle of scarred flesh winding up his neck, then skimmed across freckle-spattered shoulders, flexing as he stretched to height. He was slighter than his robes suggested. Leaner. Wiry. Far from the soft physique one might unfairly imagine for men of books

Her gaze skittered away—and then, treacherously, back. To the ridged plane of his stomach, the sharp cut of his waist narrowing into shadow. A vein pulsed along the inside of his forearm, daring her eyes—and a rogue thought of tongue—to trace it.

Gods…

Heat unfurled inside her, coiled tight around her throat, knotting pulse and breath alike. Some vain, panicked thought screamed at her to look away—at her feet, the sky, literally anywhere else—but her eyes refused to budge, inking a memory she had no doubt she would call upon later.

And maddeningly, she could feel it: he knew. That faint lift of a brow, the slow ease of his stretching. It was as if he were orchestrating her gaze, and enjoying every second of it.

“So,” Gale said, warmth curling around the words, “that’s where it went.”

Her throat worked against itself, producing only a useless scatter of words. “I—I don’t—this isn’t—Scratch, he—”

She thrust the shirt at him with more force than intended, nearly bowling him back into the tent. His accepted it with infuriating calm, as though it were ordinary laundry, draping it over his arm with a small, appreciative tilt of his head.

“Still warm,” he observed mildly. “How lovely.”

Her ears burned and her spine prickled as she spun on her heel, practically running back to the safety of her tent.

Scratch remained seated at Gale’s feet, leaning into his leg as the wizard reached down to rub his ears.

“Good boy,” he said, with a low rumble of smug laughter that would follow her the rest of the day.

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Finally started playing Baldur's Gate (mostly to appeal to my D&D friends and convince them that I'm still 'hip' and 'with it' instead of a small decrepit pile of dust that lives under a rock and only leaves the house once a week.)

Anyway, this particular cutscene during the prologue made me laugh so hard I almost woke up everyone else in the house. There's just something about making awkward prolonged eye contact with an eldritch abomination as the creepy white van it snatched you with plummets thousands of feet to the ground and its tentacles flow sensually in the breeze.

Naturally, I drew something about it.

"Like dude, I don't wanna alarm you, but I think we might be the tiniest bit fucked."

(And then you promptly get smacked in the face by a piece of rubble and go flying out the window. Cue the intro fanfare.)

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Alchemy is not her forte... turns out you can't "charisma" out your way in making an health potion

Seeing the struggle, an expert wizard comes to the rescue 🫶👀

bonus~ her ears are quite sensitive ♡

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i could watch him idle forever.

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i cannot overstate what an awful fucking feeling it is when the thing you use to escape the anxiety becomes the source of it.

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BTW i see these posts all the time like "ohhh i dont know what to comment on fics.." and every response is "keysmashes! or hearts!! anything works :3" and thats GREAT!! thats helpful!!

but: consider. if u genuinely like analyzing writing.. do u know ur just allowed to go through and quote your favorite parts and ramble abt what they mean to u and the author will LOSE IT WITH HYPE?

genuinely. i felt SO WEIRD the first time i did it.. but like. holy shit authors love it. its crack for authors. the first time i did it, it was on a fic that hadnt updated in half a year, give or take, and the author made 3 updates that month BECAUSE OF MY COMMENT.

LIKE. as an author every comment is INCREDIBLE!!! but also, dont feel like your comment has to be short or otherwise ur invasive or smth!! authors ADORE long comments more than ANYTHING.

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I think I am officially Fandom Old. I am so worn out from the arguments on who's the top or the bottom (who cares), what is allowed to be written (anything you want, bejeebus), what is Problematic (I know, just tag it), what other people Should Do (they Should live their lives free of judgment). There isn't a Right Way to do things. Tag your stuff appropriately, don't read stuff you don't want to read, and leave other people (me) alone.

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Albert Camus, from a journal entry featured in American Journals, published in 1978

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the worst thing about anxiety is the sheer irrationality of it.

like...why?

why am I sitting here with my stomach in knots and my heart racing like I just ran a mile, out of fucking nowhere?

why, suddenly, did I wake up convinced that I'm absolutely dogshit at everything AND that everyone thinks so? that not only that, but there's some convention happening somewhere where everyone's getting together to discuss at length what a piece of crap I am.

why am I suddenly ashamed to share work that is likely not as terrible as my head has convinced itself? not even just to share it--ashamed that I've even made it.

what the fuck happened between dinner last night and waking up this morning that completely upended my entire state of mind and left me a quivering mess on the verge of tears for no reason?

it's just...really fucking annoying.

y'know?

tomorrow i'll probably be fine again. Hell, in 45 minutes I might be.

so what's the FUCKING point in going through this? pos brain.

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