🌻

Reader. 30s. She/Her. European.

[feralforsilverfoxes]

The way I melted a little under his glare

[nerdygaymormon]

[dunkthebiscuit]

This is why Pride is not just a party. It's a joyful celebration, but it's also a pointed and colourful two-finger salute to a world that stood back whilst so many of us died. And we'll never go quietly, never again.

[sammy-bryant]

SOUTHLAND (2009-2013) Sammy Bryant + The Narrator

[unsolicited-opinions]

In today's example of what happens when much of a generation mistakenly believes they can become educated through memes and reels:

Let's be precise about what @queercodedangel got wrong.

What the IRD list actually was:

A private notebook, handed to one person at the IRD, listing individuals Orwell thought were unsuitable to write anti-stalinist propaganda - not people he wanted arrested, surveilled, fired, or harmed - and none of them were.

Orwell believed these specific people were Stalinist sympathizers who would undermine the work of countering Stalinism. You can legitimately think that was a bad call - it was certainly a morally complicated one for Orwell. It was not, however, the act of an imperialist snitch. It was the act of someone who hated authoritarian Stalinism enough to do something uncomfortable about it, while continuing to publicly criticize the British state.

The tension between those two things evaporates the moment you understand Orwell's position: Stalinism wasn't socialism. It was fascism with better branding, and it was destroying the socialist project from within.

History proved Orwell right.

Orwell:

Got shot through the throat while fighting fascists in Spain

Spent decades producing some of the most devastating critiques of British imperialism ever written, including Burmese Days, and Shooting an Elephant.

Called himself a Democratic Socialist his entire adult life and meant it.

Wrote that "every line of serious work I have written since 1936 has been written, directly or indirectly, against totalitarianism and for democratic socialism."

@queercodedangel is taking one late-life episode, stripping it of all context, and canceling one of the sharpest anti-totalitarian, anti-imperialist pens of the twentieth century - because he wouldn't excuse Stalin's crimes. That's apparently the price of admission to the 2026 left - being ignorant enough to deny that Stalin was a monster.

Calling that "snitching" tells you nothing about Orwell. It tells you that for some people, anti-Stalinism is a greater sin than imperialism ever was - and you can only take that position if you know nothing about what Stalinism was.

That sucking vacuum of ignorance where actual knowledge should be doesn't inspire a single second of hesitation before they confidently preach provable falsehoods. The less @queercodedangel knows about Orwell, the IRD list, or Stalin's crimes, the more confident the verdict. This is what happens when a generation decides memes and reels are sufficient substitutes for actually reading anything.

Orwell spent his life fighting this kind of epistemic laziness - the willingness to flatten complex realities into politically useful, emotionally resonant, self-affirming fictions.

This is why Gen Z desperately needs to read the Orwell and Huxley they've been told to avoid.

There hasn't been a generation in living memory simultaneously more vulnerable to propaganda and more thoroughly convinced they are completely immune to it.

[digitalkiddo]

If you're writing anything involving cons, scams, heists, or morally questionable characters who are very good at lying, here are some free resources I've been using for research. Saving you the "why is this in my search history" anxiety.

1. The FBI's Famous Cases & Criminals archive (fbi.gov/history/famous-cases) has detailed breakdowns of real fraud cases, Ponzi schemes, and confidence operations. The language they use is clinical and precise, which is perfect for getting the procedural details right.

2. The FTC Consumer Sentinel Network publishes annual reports on the most common fraud tactics in the US. Great for understanding how modern scams actually work and what makes people fall for them.

3. The Smithsonian's American Art Museum has a free digital collection of forgery case studies. If your character forges documents or art, this is gold.

4. Court Listener (courtlistener.com) is a free legal database where you can read actual court transcripts from fraud trials. Want to know how a real con artist talks under oath? This is where you find out.

5. The Internet Archive's collection of old newspaper crime sections. Search for "confidence man" or "swindle" in papers from the 1920s through 1960s and you'll find incredible real stories that would feel too dramatic for fiction.

Bonus: The Psychology of Fraud section on the Association for Psychological Science website has accessible articles about why people trust, how deception works cognitively, and what makes someone a convincing liar. Essential reading if you want your con artist characters to feel psychologically real.

Reblog to save for later. Your WIP will thank you.

[alleesaur]

the productivity creatures

[fanficwritinggirl]

𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐖 “𝐏𝐎𝐏𝐄” 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

andrew “pope” cody x f!reader

all pope fics and one-shots will be linked here ♡ please check individual posts for warnings before reading.

last updated: [06/06/2026]

────────────────────

𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒

— Something Good

— Before I Know Your Name

— The Sound of Home

— Pink Like Morning

— Almost Her Name

— Proof of Home

— False Alarm

— Before She Gets Here

— Before Everything Changes

— Before Next Week

────────────────────

thank you for reading ♡

Taglist - 

@itwas-maroon16, @locaalolaa, @lizzyhaas-blog. Angelbunny222, @ynniksslirg, @mn2024x, @leilawarnerr, @lillly-ofthevalley, @nyxmoretti, @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @happyendingarentreal, 

@Jennataurus, @heyyimmisunderstood,@just-reading22, @karlawithacapitalk, @alexxavicry, @tubby23, @mil88691 

@jennataurus @sarai-ibn-la-ahad 

@changbinsrightboob @labiblioteque @booknerd0394  @fromirkwood

[fanficwritinggirl]

{Before Everything Changes - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

Please go and read my debut novel What The Fire Left. It would mean the world to me if you did. Its free on kindle unlimited and it should be available as a paperback in the next day or 2 so please read it. Thank you xxx

Comment to be added to the taglist.

What The Fire Left: Alder Ridge #1 eBook : Gibson, Isobel : Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

You were too pregnant for the visiting room chairs.

That was your first thought.

Not romantic.

Not meaningful.

Not poetic in the slightest.

Just a sharp, irritated certainty the second you lowered yourself into booth five and felt the hard plastic press badly against your back.

"No," you muttered.

Your daughter shifted beneath your ribs as if she agreed.

You braced one hand on the edge of the counter and adjusted yourself again, trying to find a position that didn't make your hips ache or your lower back feel like it belonged to someone twice your age.

No luck.

The chair was built for punishment.

Which, given the building, made sense.

You sighed and rested both hands over your stomach.

Thirty-seven weeks.

Full term.

Technically.

That was the word everyone kept using now. Technically, she could come anytime. Technically, the hospital bag being by the front door was smart. Technically, the car seat Craig had installed and then made Deran check and then made an actual fire station check was necessary.

Technically, you were fine.

Mostly, you were tired.

Tired in your bones. Tired in your blood. Tired in places you did not know could be tired. You had forgotten what it felt like to roll over in bed without planning it first. Your ankles had opinions. Your bladder had become a tyrant. Your daughter had recently discovered a spot under your ribs that apparently existed solely for her foot.

You loved her.

You were also ready to negotiate her eviction.

"Don't start," you whispered to your stomach as she rolled. "We are in public."

She kicked.

You closed your eyes.

"Rude."

The guard at the far end of the room gave you a brief look.

You stared back.

He looked away.

Good.

You were heavily pregnant, sleep-deprived, and sitting in a prison visiting room. You had earned the right to talk to your own stomach without commentary.

The door on the other side opened.

Andrew walked in.

Your breath caught, like it always did.

You hated that it still surprised you. That seeing him could still move through your body that quickly. That he could walk into a room in prison clothes, too thin and tired-eyed and locked behind glass, and your first instinct was still home.

His eyes found you instantly.

Then dropped to your stomach.

He stopped.

Only for half a second.

Barely enough for anyone else to notice.

But you noticed.

You always did.

His face changed.

Not fear exactly.

Not the sharp panic of the early months, when every new detail had cut him open because it made the baby more real and him more aware of everything he couldn't touch.

This was different.

This was awe.

Your daughter was impossible to miss now.

Your belly curved full and low beneath your loose dress, one hand resting over the top of it, the other braced against the counter like you were negotiating with gravity.

Andrew sat down slowly and picked up the phone.

You lifted yours.

"Hi," you said.

His eyes stayed on you.

"Hi."

"You're staring."

"You're huge."

Your mouth fell open.

Andrew's face immediately shifted.

"No."

You stared at him.

"No," he repeated quickly, almost panicked. "Not you. The baby. I mean—"

You raised your eyebrows.

He stopped.

Then he closed his eyes for one long second.

"Bad opening."

A laugh broke out of you before you could stop it.

It hurt your back.

Worth it.

"Terrible opening."

"I know."

"Really awful."

"I know."

"You would think after months of pregnancy, you'd have learned not to say the word huge to your wife."

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant."

He looked at you carefully.

"You laughing or crying?"

"Laughing."

"You sure?"

"Currently. Could go either way."

His mouth twitched.

The baby moved.

You shifted with a little grimace.

Andrew noticed immediately.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What was that?"

"She moved."

"Hard?"

"Just awkwardly."

His eyes dropped to your stomach again.

"She's low."

Your eyebrows lifted. "Excuse me?"

He looked up. "What?"

"How do you know that?"

"You're holding different."

You stared at him.

Andrew looked back like this was obvious.

You shook your head slowly. "It is very annoying how observant you are."

"Are you okay?"

"There it is."

"You are?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Mostly."

His gaze narrowed.

You sighed. "I'm uncomfortable."

"How uncomfortable?"

"Like there is an entire person inside me and she has no manners."

His eyes softened.

"She kicking?"

"She has been stretching. Violently."

"Like you."

"I do not stretch violently."

"You do when you're mad."

"You are lucky there is glass between us."

His mouth twitched again.

You shifted in the chair and winced before you could hide it.

Andrew leaned closer. "Back?"

"Yes."

"Chair?"

"Yes."

His jaw tightened.

Not in anger at you.

At the chair.

At the room.

At every object failing to be soft enough.

You pointed at him gently. "Do not start a fight with furniture you cannot reach."

His eyes lifted to yours.

"I wasn't."

"You were considering it."

"It's a bad chair."

"It is a terrible chair."

"You should ask for another one."

"In prison?"

"Yes."

You looked around meaningfully.

Andrew's face stayed completely serious.

You smiled despite yourself.

"Baby, I love you, but I do not think this place is taking comfort-based furniture requests."

"They should."

"They absolutely should. They won't."

He looked irritated by that.

It made you love him in a way that hurt.

You rested one hand low on your stomach and leaned back as much as the chair allowed.

Andrew watched the movement.

"She been moving today?"

"Yes."

"Enough?"

"Yes."

"You counting?"

You gave him a look.

He held yours.

You sighed. "Yes, Andrew. I'm counting."

"Good."

"I have apps. Charts. Notes. A doctor. Craig. Deran. You. Everyone in my life has become obsessed with whether this baby is moving, drinking enough water, or hiding my shoes so I don't go places."

"Who hid your shoes?"

You smiled.

Andrew's gaze sharpened. "Who?"

"No one."

"Baby."

"Craig put them on top of the fridge yesterday."

Andrew stared at you.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

A real one.

Small, rough, startled out of him.

You went still.

He seemed surprised by it too.

His eyes dropped for a second, embarrassed.

You smiled softly. "That was nice."

"What?"

"You laughing."

His face closed slightly, but not all the way.

"He put your shoes on the fridge."

"He said if I could reach them, I was allowed to leave."

Andrew's mouth twitched again.

"He's right."

"He is not."

"You're short."

"I am pregnant. There is a difference."

"You're both."

You narrowed your eyes. "Glass, Andrew."

"I remember."

The room around you carried on.

Other voices. Other visits. Other lives being held together in twenty-minute pieces.

But this booth had its own weather.

It always did.

You looked at him more carefully.

He looked tired.

More tired than last time.

There was a faint bruise near his jaw, mostly faded, yellow-green at the edge. Your stomach tightened at the sight of it.

Andrew saw you see it.

His expression changed first.

A shutter coming down.

"Don't," he said.

Your eyes lifted to his.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Andrew."

"It's old."

"That is not an answer."

"It's handled."

"That is also not an answer."

He looked away.

You hated the glass then.

Not softly.

Not in the familiar aching way.

You hated it with teeth.

Because if there had been no glass, you could have touched his jaw. Tilted his face. Checked for yourself. Made him look at you. Made him understand that his body mattered to you even when he acted like it was only something to survive inside.

Your hand tightened around the phone.

"Are you safe?"

His eyes came back to yours.

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

You watched him.

He let you.

For once, he did not rush to make you feel silly for worrying. He just held still and let you look.

Finally, you nodded.

"Okay."

His shoulders eased slightly.

The baby rolled.

You inhaled and pressed your palm to the side of your stomach.

Andrew's eyes dropped.

"What?"

"She's moving."

"Can I see?"

The question came out before he seemed to know he was asking it.

Your heart softened.

"You might not be able to from there."

"Try."

You shifted carefully, angling yourself a little sideways in the chair. You moved the phone awkwardly, then rested one hand on the side of your belly where the baby had been pressing.

For a few seconds, nothing happened.

Andrew watched with complete focus.

You could barely breathe.

Then your stomach moved.

A visible roll beneath the fabric of your dress.

Small but undeniable.

Andrew froze.

His lips parted slightly.

"There," you whispered.

He did not answer.

His eyes were fixed on your stomach.

The baby pushed again, slower this time.

Your dress shifted with it.

Andrew's hand lifted toward the glass.

Stopped.

Pressed flat.

His throat moved.

"She did that?"

You smiled through the sudden sting in your eyes.

"She did that."

"She's strong."

"She is."

"She moved like..." He stopped.

"Like what?"

He shook his head once, still staring.

"I don't know."

You softened.

Andrew Cody, who could name fear in half a dozen ways without ever saying the word, had no language for his daughter moving under your skin.

That felt about right.

The baby settled.

You turned back toward him, a little breathless from the awkward angle.

Andrew looked at your face.

His eyes were wet.

He did not hide it as quickly as he used to.

Progress, you thought.

Painful, beautiful progress.

"You okay?" you asked.

His mouth twitched faintly.

"That's my question."

"I'm stealing it."

"I'm okay."

"Good crying?"

He looked down, embarrassed.

Your smile softened.

"Yeah," he said, so quietly you almost missed it.

That one word nearly finished you.

You looked away for a second, blinking hard.

The guard announced ten minutes for another booth.

Not yours yet.

Still, the sound made your stomach dip.

Time had started feeling different now.

Every visit, every call, every appointment had the same strange question beneath it.

Would this be the last one before she came?

You had not said that out loud.

Neither had Andrew.

Maybe you were both afraid of giving the thought a shape.

He looked at you like he was thinking it anyway.

"How's the bag?" he asked.

"Hospital bag?"

"Yeah."

"Packed."

"By the door?"

"Yes."

"Car seat?"

"Installed."

"Checked?"

"By Craig, Deran, and an actual professional who looked extremely confused about why two grown men were arguing over strap tension."

Andrew nodded seriously. "Good."

"The professional?"

"The arguing."

You laughed.

"And the professional," he added.

"Of course."

"Phone charger?"

"In the bag."

"Snacks?"

"Yes."

"More than one?"

"Yes."

"Water bottle?"

"Yes."

"Her clothes?"

"Three outfits."

He nodded, satisfied.

"Because Craig panic-packed them during the false alarm," you added.

"He did right."

"He will be thrilled you agree."

"He shouldn't be thrilled. He should keep doing it."

"You are all impossible."

Andrew's eyes softened.

"You got everything you need?"

The question was careful.

Bigger than hospital bags.

You heard it.

You looked at him through the glass.

"No."

His face changed.

You gave him a small, sad smile.

"But I have enough."

His hand tightened around the phone.

Enough was not the same as everything.

Both of you knew that.

But enough mattered.

Enough was Craig checking the car seat.

Deran picking duck cakes.

A wooden duck on the nursery shelf.

Green walls.

Hospital bag by the door.

Andrew's voice on the phone.

His hand pressed to the glass.

A daughter moving beneath your ribs.

Enough was not fair.

But it was something.

Andrew nodded once.

"You'll tell me?" he asked.

"When it starts?"

"Yeah."

"As soon as I can."

His jaw shifted.

You leaned closer.

"I will."

"No waiting until it's over."

"I won't."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

He held your gaze for a long second.

Then nodded.

The baby kicked hard enough to make you jump.

"Oh!"

Andrew straightened. "What?"

"She kicked my rib."

"She okay?"

"She is thriving. I am under attack."

His face softened in helpless amusement.

"You want me to talk to her?"

"Yes, actually. Tell your daughter to remove her foot from my organs."

You moved the phone awkwardly down toward your stomach, holding it against the side of your belly.

"She can hear you," you said.

Andrew's voice changed immediately.

It always did when he spoke to her.

Lower.

Softer.

Careful in a way that made your chest ache.

"Hey, baby girl."

Your eyes closed.

The baby shifted.

"Your mom says you're kicking her ribs."

You smiled.

"You gotta stop doing that."

A pause.

"She needs those."

A laugh escaped you.

Andrew continued, voice warming slightly.

"And you gotta stay in a little longer. Not a lot. Just enough."

Your throat tightened.

"We're almost ready."

Almost.

The word moved through you.

The baby rolled under the phone.

You inhaled.

Andrew stopped. "Was that her?"

"Yeah."

"She listening?"

"I think so."

"Good."

He took a breath.

"You got a lot of people waiting on you," he said. "Your mom most of all. She says she's tired, but she's doing good. Better than good."

Your eyes burned.

"She made your room green. She put my duck on your shelf even though the beak's wrong."

You laughed softly through tears.

"And she keeps wearing my shirts, which I like."

Your cheeks warmed. "Andrew."

"I'm talking to her."

"You're still embarrassing me."

"Good."

You shook your head, smiling.

His voice softened again.

"You be easy on her tonight, okay?"

The baby moved once more, then settled.

You brought the phone back to your ear.

"She listened."

Andrew exhaled.

"Good girl."

The words were almost a whisper.

Your heart folded in on itself.

The guard called five minutes.

This time, it was yours.

You felt it like a drop in the floor.

Andrew's eyes flicked toward the guard.

Then back to you.

Five minutes.

You hated how little could be said in five minutes.

You hated how much had to be.

You looked at him.

Really looked.

At the bruise near his jaw.

At the tiredness in his eyes.

At the way he held the phone like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the room.

"I need you to do something for me," you said.

He went still.

"What?"

"Don't get in trouble."

His expression shifted.

"I'm serious."

"I know."

"No fights. No stupid risks. No trying to handle things alone just because you think you can take it."

His jaw tightened.

You leaned closer, voice quiet.

"She's coming soon."

His eyes dropped to your stomach.

"I need you as safe as you can be when she gets here."

His throat moved.

That landed.

Not as a guilt trip.

Not as accusation.

As truth.

Andrew nodded once.

"I'll try."

Your eyes filled.

With him, that was not small.

That was a vow.

"Okay," you whispered.

He looked at your stomach again.

Then back to you.

"You too."

"I am not getting in prison fights."

His mouth twitched.

"You know what I mean."

"I do."

"Rest."

"I will."

"Drink water."

"Yes."

"No lifting."

"Yes."

"If contractions start—"

"I call the doctor. I call Craig. I message you. I do not wait until it's over."

He stared at you.

You smiled faintly. "See? I listen."

"Sometimes."

"I'm choosing to find that romantic."

"It was."

You laughed.

Then cried a little, because of course.

Andrew noticed immediately.

His face softened.

"Baby."

"I'm fine."

"Good crying?"

"Pregnant crying."

"That different?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I don't know. There's more of it."

His mouth moved like he wanted to smile but couldn't quite manage it.

You wiped under your eye.

"I'm scared," you said suddenly.

The words surprised both of you.

Andrew went very still.

You looked down at your stomach.

"Not all the time. Not in a bad way. Just..." You swallowed. "It's close now."

"I know."

"And I want to meet her."

His eyes softened.

"So badly."

"Yeah."

"But everything changes when she comes."

Andrew held the phone tighter.

"Yeah."

You looked back up at him.

"What if I'm not ready?"

He answered without hesitation.

"You are."

Your laugh came out wet. "You don't know that."

"I know you."

That broke something small and tender in you.

Andrew leaned closer to the glass.

"You don't have to feel ready," he said. "You just have to be there."

Your lips trembled.

"That sounds familiar."

"Yeah."

You had said something like that to him once.

When he had been terrified of being a father.

When everything was early and impossible and small enough to fit inside an ultrasound photo.

Now he was giving it back to you.

The guard stepped closer.

Time.

You pressed your palm to the glass.

Andrew lifted his.

Palm to palm.

Cold barrier.

Warm intention.

"I love you," you said.

"I love you."

"And she loves you."

His eyes dropped to your stomach.

"I love her."

You smiled through tears.

"I know."

The guard shifted again.

You stood slowly, one hand on the counter, the other supporting your belly.

Andrew stood too.

His palm stayed on the glass.

For a moment, you did not move.

You wanted to remember him like this.

Not the prison.

Not the bruise.

Not the glass.

Him.

Looking at you like you were already halfway through the door into the rest of your life and he was trying to memorize the shape of you before everything changed.

"Next week?" he asked.

Your heart squeezed.

"Next week," you said.

Neither of you knew.

Maybe that was mercy.

You touched your fingers to the glass once more.

Then you turned and walked out.

Every step felt heavier than the last.

At the door, you looked back.

Andrew was still standing there, hand against the glass, eyes on you.

You lifted your hand.

He lifted his.

Then the door closed.

Outside, the air felt warmer than it had when you went in.

You stood beside the car for a moment, one hand over your stomach, breathing through a tightness low in your back that had been coming and going all morning.

Probably nothing.

Practice, the nurse would say.

Your daughter shifted beneath your palm.

You smiled tiredly.

"Not yet," you whispered. "We just told him next week."

The baby kicked.

You laughed under your breath and opened the car door.

Behind you, inside the prison, Andrew Cody sat back down after they took him from the visiting room.

For the rest of the day, he carried the image of you with him.

Your hand on your stomach.

Your laugh through the phone.

The way his daughter had moved where he could see it.

The words you had said before leaving.

She's coming soon.

That night, he took the photo from beneath his pillow and looked at it for a long time.

The green room.

The shirt.

You.

His daughter hidden beneath your hands.

He touched the edge of the picture carefully.

"Next week," he whispered.

And because he did not know any better yet, he let himself believe it.

Taglist - 

@itwas-maroon16, @locaalolaa, @lizzyhaas-blog. Angelbunny222, @ynniksslirg, @mn2024x, @leilawarnerr, @lillly-ofthevalley, @nyxmoretti, @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @happyendingarentreal, 

@Jennataurus, @heyyimmisunderstood,@just-reading22, @karlawithacapitalk, @alexxavicry, @tubby23, @mil88691 

@jennataurus @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @changbinsrightboob @labiblioteque @booknerd0394 

[inadvertently-biblical]

RUPERT GILES & BUFFY SUMMERS

Buffy the Vampire Slayer - 5x05

[shesaidshemight]

🥺

[thedouble]

“Freedom always has a price.”

― Persepolis (2007) dir. Marjane Satrapi, Vincent Paronnaud

[notaplaceofhonour]

Ryan Gosling’s career has just been one long quest to climb the Warner Bros water tower

[notaplaceofhonour]

that man has been trying to climb this tower since he was 16. he has asked multiple times, and every time they said no, but now he’s famous enough & variety was able to convince them to do a shoot on the tower. it all led here. it was all for this.

[notaplaceofhonour]

I’m obsessed with the implication that this was a coming-of-age ritual where a boy becomes a man, like a bar mitzvah

[catchymemes]

[wereopossum]

The sheer energy. The beauty of this woman. The women hugging in the background. The man in rainbow parachute pants. This whole video is art.

[inthefallofasparrow]

XXI. The World

[taboo-delusion]

This is what world peace looks like

[legsdemandias]

Commenting fanfiction is the easiest thing in the world once you start doing it. 

[legsdemandias]

I leave a comment on every single fic I read. Sometimes when I read published books I go and leave a comment somewhere the author can find it. Granted, I literally majored in ‘leaving comments on fics’ (English Education), but once you start doing it it just becomes second nature. Now you’re gonna go to the Ozymandias school of leaving comments: 

Problem: I can’t leave kudos again.

Beginner: This is a second/third/fourth Kudos

Advanced: This is my second/third/fortieth time reading this, I still love it so much. Here are a few new things I noticed. I like the way you personally do x, y, z compared to other authors I’ve read (in this ship/genre/fandom).

Problem: I don’t know what to say :(

Beginner: Just list what you did to read this fic. “I stayed up late reading this”, “I read this on a crowded train”, “this kept me company while sick”. 

Advanced: X,Y,Z parts made me get butterflies, and I had a physical reaction to this part of the story, I squealed outloud when characters did x,y,z. I blushed at this part. I laughed out loud here. Whatever. 

Problem: I’m embarrassed to leave a comment (what if I annoy the author?)

Beginner: Short answer: you won’t EVER annoy the author (unless you’re needlessly mean) But to start, be generic, you don’t have to spill your soul in the comments section. “I liked this” “I enjoyed reading this” “nice fic”.

Advanced: This really meant a lot to me that you wrote this. This is something I feel like I’ve always wanted to read. This fic hit me in all the right places. Etc. 

Problem: I don’t know how to express myself/my experience 

Beginner: My beginners go to is to highlight a line, put that in your comment and say “i liked this” or to identify basic emotions you had while reading and comment those “this made me happy” “this part made me sad” “i almost cried” “you made me laugh”  Advanced: “Highlighted line” This line made me smile because it has to do with character development/it’s really romantic/it’s so unique/it’s moving. Sometimes I don’t highlight a line at all, I just talk about the stuff I’ve noticed were unique to the fic. “I love the way you did this particular thing with this character”. 

[toybeluga]

This? This is an amazing post. This is the Captain Awkward of commenting posts—it addresses all your fears directly and gives you actionable scripts for each one.

[tzikeh]

More examples of the WORST mansplaining here.

[useyourblinker]

This might be my favorite

[lotsofcatsandcheapwine]

This is mine

[stockyardsyndrome]

[azaablue]

the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.

[cilantrhoes]

[itsbeeugaymers]

can I reblog for both?

[six-sox]

I’m reblogging for both

[sammy-bryant]

Ken Kirby and Shawn Hatosy at the MPTF NextGen Summer Party held at The Aster on May 31, 2026 in Los Angeles, California.