“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.
Do you think when Damian first arrived at Gotham and to the Wayne Manor, he got an ick because Americans wear shoes indoors? Imagine him automatically starting to take off his shoes, searching for slippers, and realising that everyone just... walk around in their boots... without a care in the world?
Dick, jumping on the coach with his converses, straight from the street: So, watcha doing?
Damian, with his eye twitching: ...Why would you do that.
Damian, entering Tim's room to announce that the dinner is ready: Drake, Alfred had-
The first thing Damian noticed about Gotham was the smell—wet concrete, gasoline, and the distinct staleness of city air. It was offensive, but he supposed he could tolerate it. The second thing, however, nearly made him turn back to the League.
When he entered Wayne Manor for the first time, stepping into its grand foyer, his first instinct was to remove his shoes. It was basic decorum. One simply does not track the filth of the outside world into their home. He bent down, fingers already at his laces, when he noticed something deeply unsettling.
No one else was taking theirs off.
Grayson, in his obnoxiously casual way, lounged on the couch with his feet—his shoes—propped up on a table. Drake slouched in a chair, sneakers still caked with whatever dirt he’d dragged in from outside. Even Pennyworth, the one person Damian had assumed had sense, merely raised an eyebrow at him.
“…Are we not removing our shoes?” Damian asked, not hesitantly because mother says to never hesitate, but it’s a close thing.
Grayson blinked at him, then looked down at his own feet. “Uh. No?”
“Why?”
Grayson shrugged. “Because we don’t?”
Damian’s disgust was immediate. He straightened, arms crossing over his chest. “So you just… walk around with the outside world clinging to your feet? In the house?”
Drake, ever so annoying, rolled his eyes at him. “Welcome to America."
Damian scowled. He had lived among assassins. He had seen the worst of humanity, watched men die in the dirt. And yet, this—this was what made his stomach churn.
Pennyworth, ever unshaken, cleared his throat. “If you’d prefer slippers, Master Damian, I can fetch you a pair.”
Damian lifted his chin. “Yes. Fetch them immediately.”
Pennyworth left without a word.
That first day set the tone for what Damian could only describe as his personal nightmare.
Everywhere he went in the manor, there were shoes. In the hallways, on the expensive rugs, even on the furniture. Todd had the audacity to prop his boots on the coffee table like a complete degenerate. Grayson sprawled out on the couch, sneakers still on, oblivious to the sheer depravity of his actions.
Damian held firm. He wore his slippers—immaculate, pristine—and side-eyed everyone else with the full force of his disappointment. Couldn’t they atleast wear slippers? For if they didn’t want to take off their shoes and walk barefoot, could they not atleast wear slippers? Alas, no. Damian lives in a house with cavemen, backwards evolved, uncultured cavemen.
One evening, he stormed into the Batcave, slippers firmly on his feet.
“Baba,” he announced, “this city is diseased.”
Bruce, hunched over the Batcomputer, barely glanced at him. “That’s not news.”
“I mean culturally,” Damian pressed. “You all walk inside with shoes on. It’s barbaric.”
Bruce finally turned to look at him, the slightest crease between his brows. “…You came down here just to complain about that?”
“It is a valid complaint,” Damian insisted. “Do you realize how much filth is on the bottom of your boots right now?”
Bruce sighed, rubbing his temple. “Damian—”
“Blood, baba. Among other things.”
Bruce blinked. That gave him pause.
Damian pressed on. “We fight in alleyways. Rooftops. Sewers. And then you come inside and just walk around like nothing is on you?”
Silence.
Bruce opened his mouth. Then closed it. His eyes flicked to his boots.
“…Hnh.”
A small victory.
Damian turned and left, dignified in his slippers.
the sandman season 2 should've had a scene where hob stomps up to the fates and said most audaciously, "excuse me, he said no suffering," while dream is standing behind him like the sad cat that he is
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