#“Ask ChatGPT to fix it for you.”

[ziekkfreak2-0]

Dear parents/parental figures,

Please stop recommending I use ChatGPT while I have a breakdown about my academic performance. I don't need to be reminded that my tuition is paid by blood anymore than I already do.

Thank you!

Sincerely,

Your artist-writer daughter.

[aiweirdness]

Among the many downsides of AI-generated art: it's bad at revising. You know, the biggest part of the process when working on commissioned art.

Original "deer in a grocery store" request from chatgpt (which calls on dalle3 for image generation):

revision 5 (trying to give the fawn spots, trying to fix the shadows that were making it appear to hover):

I had it restore its own Jesus fresco.

Original:

Erased the face, asked it to restore the image to as good as when it was first painted:

Wait tumblr makes the image really low-res, let me zoom in on Jesus's face.

Original:

Restored:

One revision later:

Here's the full "restored" face in context:

Every time AI is asked to revise an image, it either wipes it and starts over or makes it more and more of a disaster. People who work with AI-generated imagery have to adapt their creative vision to what comes out of the system - or go in with a mentality that anything that fits the brief is good enough.

I'm not surprised that there are some places looking for cheap filler images that don't mind the problems with AI-generated imagery. But for everyone else I think it's quickly becoming clear that you need a real artist, not a knockoff.

more

[bi-writes]

whats wrong with ai?? genuinely curious <3

okay let's break it down. i'm an engineer, so i'm going to come at you from a perspective that may be different than someone else's.

i don't hate ai in every aspect. in theory, there are a lot of instances where, in fact, ai can help us do things a lot better without. here's a few examples:

ai detecting cancer

ai sorting recycling

some practical housekeeping that gemini (google ai) can do

all of the above examples are ways in which ai works with humans to do things in parallel with us. it's not overstepping--it's sorting, using pixels at a micro-level to detect abnormalities that we as humans can not, fixing a list. these are all really small, helpful ways that ai can work with us.

everything else about ai works against us. in general, ai is a huge consumer of natural resources. every prompt that you put into character.ai, chatgpt? this wastes water + energy. it's not free. a machine somewhere in the world has to swallow your prompt, call on a model to feed data into it and process more data, and then has to generate an answer for you all in a relatively short amount of time.

that is crazy expensive. someone is paying for that, and if it isn't you with your own money, it's the strain on the power grid, the water that cools the computers, the A/C that cools the data centers. and you aren't the only person using ai. chatgpt alone gets millions of users every single day, with probably thousands of prompts per second, so multiply your personal consumption by millions, and you can start to see how the picture is becoming overwhelming.

that is energy consumption alone. we haven't even talked about how problematic ai is ethically. there is currently no regulation in the united states about how ai should be developed, deployed, or used.

what does this mean for you?

it means that anything you post online is subject to data mining by an ai model (because why would they need to ask if there's no laws to stop them? wtf does it matter what it means to you to some idiot software engineer in the back room of an office making 3x your salary?). oh, that little fic you posted to wattpad that got a lot of attention? well now it's being used to teach ai how to write. oh, that sketch you made using adobe that you want to sell? adobe didn't tell you that anything you save to the cloud is now subject to being used for their ai models, so now your art is being replicated to generate ai images in photoshop, without crediting you (they have since said they don't do this...but privacy policies were never made to be human-readable, and i can't imagine they are the only company to sneakily try this). oh, your apartment just installed a new system that will use facial recognition to let their residents inside? oh, they didn't train their model with anyone but white people, so now all the black people living in that apartment building can't get into their homes. oh, you want to apply for a new job? the ai model that scans resumes learned from historical data that more men work that role than women (so the model basically thinks men are better than women), so now your resume is getting thrown out because you're a woman.

ai learns from data. and data is flawed. data is human. and as humans, we are racist, homophobic, misogynistic, transphobic, divided. so the ai models we train will learn from this. ai learns from people's creative works--their personal and artistic property. and now it's scrambling them all up to spit out generated images and written works that no one would ever want to read (because it's no longer a labor of love), and they're using that to make money. they're profiting off of people, and there's no one to stop them. they're also using generated images as marketing tools, to trick idiots on facebook, to make it so hard to be media literate that we have to question every single thing we see because now we don't know what's real and what's not.

the problem with ai is that it's doing more harm than good. and we as a society aren't doing our due diligence to understand the unintended consequences of it all. we aren't angry enough. we're too scared of stifling innovation that we're letting it regulate itself (aka letting companies decide), which has never been a good idea. we see it do one cool thing, and somehow that makes up for all the rest of the bullshit?

[venussaidso]

ASHWINI CHARACTERS

Yall I asked ChatGPT to give me a list of gifted characters such as Beth Harmon (played by Anya Taylor Joy) and the first 2 examples are characters played by Ashwinis IM CRYINN should I make a post? Obviously I need more data but stillll I'm foaming in the mouthhh.

I'm watching the Chinese drama "Falling Into Your Smile" and the most gifted character in the team of players is played by Xu Kai Ashwini Moon!! He is admired for his quickness and strategic mind.

As I'm watching I'm thinking bro reminds me of Ashwini Sun Song Kang who was in "Forecasting Love & Weather" and his character was set apart from everyone else in the workplace with his activeness and knowledgeable insights so I'm thinking ???? That's when I pulled ChatGPT cause Google ain't shit nowadays.

Ashwini is generally related to the head (Aries, and also the mind due to the connected minds of the Ashwini Kumaras), its related to ultimate speed and an active intelligence (Ashwini Moon Benedict Cumberbatch's characters Sherlock Holmes & also Doctor Strange who was the most skilled, masterful surgeon -- for example).

All these characters, though, have a one-track mind when it comes to ONE thing, and because of Ketu they tend to be unmotivated by worldly things and bad at everything else in their life. Benedict's Sherlock Holmes, for example, has no care for anything else but solving convoluted mysteries; we see his lack of interest of forming human connections or developing relationships and especially acquiring any wealth or fame for that matter. Although, because of him being exceptionally gifted, he unintentionally becomes popular but even that doesn't play into his arrogance. Very similarly to Beth Harmon.

She wasn't particularly excited about gaining recognition which came with being insanely gifted as she was. What drove her was her skill for chess, and everything else in her life was dull or painful. Much like Sherlock, as what drives him is the thrill of suspense.

Them pulling attention makes a lot of sense as Ketu is extremely absorbing of things around them whether intentional or not. Which is why they tend to play golddigging characters or characters that are generally exploitative who are intentional about draining people and things around them. It's not that Ketuvians care for wealth and recognition, it's that this planet type can be so magnetic that they pull such energies although in a rather destructive sense when it's intentional. Claire Nakti described this better in her Ketu Dominant Men video. A character who is talented and relentlessly fixed on one thing is Daniel Plainview, played by Ashwini Moon Daniel Day Lewis, who exploits people that submit to him; extracting resources, draining oils from lands he steals from others etc. using his title and power to further wrong others, perfectly fitting into the negative archetype we've seen in Ketuvians (well, this being the gold digging (or should I say oil-digging, although yes he extracts wealth too)male version of that). But with these other Ketu characters I mentioned in my post, their magnetism due to their personal talents and skills goes either unnoticed by the Ketuvian themselves or generally gets unused (which can go the other way around for exploitative means as Claire explained in-depth).

Ashwinis need something in their life to pour into so that their mind and soul is stimulated, otherwise they may fall into bad vices as their inner beast (primal nature) is hard to manage (much less tame) when they drift through life meaninglessly. They are prone to being unmotivated already. Soon as there's something to get fixed on, it's over for everyone.

I'm not sure who, I believe it was KRS Astrology, who said that Ashwini can have a concentration like no other through the midst of chaos. Ashwini energy is the most intense of the Ketu nakshatras, and it is full of too much potential, but it can only be harnessed through the individual taming it (their inner beast) to find an identity in something, which is interesting as it contrasts the theme of Mula who is able to tame outer beasts as Mula has surpassed that stage (already being one with its inner beast and primal instincts).

[nostalgebraist]

Pretty regularly, at work, I ask ChatGPT hundreds of slightly different questions over the course of a minute or two.

I don't type out these individual questions, of course. They're constructed mechanically, by taking documents one by one from a list, and slotting each one inside a sandwich of fixed text. Like this (not verbatim):

Here's a thing for you to read: //document goes here// Now answer question XYZ about it.

I never read through all of the responses, either. Maybe I'll read a few of them, later on, after doing some kind of statistics to the whole aggregate. But ChatGPT isn't really writing for human consumption, here. It's an industrial machine. It's generating "data," on the basis of other "data."

Often, I ask it to write out a step-by-step reasoning process before answering each question, because this has been shown to improve the quality of ChatGPT's answers. It writes me all this stuff, and I ignore all of it. It's a waste product. I only ask for it because it makes the answer after it better, on average; I have no other use for it.

The funny thing is -- despite being used in a very different, more impersonal manner -- it's still ChatGPT! It's still the same sanctimonious, eager-to-please little guy, answering all those questions.

Fifty questions at once, hundreds in a few minutes, all of it in that same, identical, somewhat annoying brand voice. Always itself, incapable of tiring.

This is all billed to my employer at a rate of roughly $0.01 per 5,000 words I send to ChatGPT, plus roughly $0.01 per 3,750 words that ChatGPT writes in response.

In other words, ChatGPT writing is so cheap, you can get 375,000 words of it for $1.

----

OpenAI decided to make this particular "little guy" very cheap and very fast, maybe in recognition of its popularity.

So now, if you want to use a language model like an industrial machine, it's the one you're most likely to use.

----

Why am I making this post?

Sometimes I read online discourse about ChatGPT, and it seems like people are overly focused on the experience of a single human talking to ChatGPT in the app.

Or, at most, the possibility of generating lots of "content" aimed at humans (SEO spam, generic emails) at the press of a button.

Many of the most promising applications of ChatGPT involve generating text that is not meant for human consumption.

They go in the other direction: they take things from the messy, human, textual world, and translate them into the simpler terms of ordinary computer programs.

Imagine you're interacting with a system -- a company, a website, a phone tree, whatever.

You say or type something.

Behind the scenes, unbeknownst to you, the system asks ChatGPT 13 different questions about the thing you just said/typed. This happens almost instantaneously and costs almost nothing.

No human being will ever see any of the words that ChatGPT wrote in response to this question. They get parsed by simple, old-fashioned computer code, and then they get discarded.

Each of ChatGPT's answers ends in a simple "yes" or "no," or a selection from a similar set of discrete options. The system uses all of this structured, "machine-readable" (in the old-fashioned sense) information to decide what to do next, in its interaction with you.

This is the kind of thing that will happen, more and more.

[white-shadow25]

Hi, can we have an scenario with Fem!Reader and True Noah Tyki form? Like the reader (also his lover) thought that he will hurt or kill her in this form, only to be forced to cuddle with him on floor, while purring in deep and loud voice 🤭

I am so, so sorry about how long it took me to get into writing ಥ‿ಥ Honestly, I was kind of sick when the requests started coming in, I think, I'm not sure of the exact dates but it must been pretty much close to it.

Moral of the story, don't have COVID and dengue altogether, you will suffer.

(Also I wanted to thank those who sent me nice words, I've been wanting to answer since I received them but I was too weak and have been thinking about it since then but just never answer.)

Now, in more optimistic news, I write something! I translated it with the help of ChatGPT, (I write in a pretty bad Span-English most of the time) it was far more quickly than it usually takes me to translate things, and with my very limited English knowledge, I would say is fine, if you notice something's off let me know so I'll never use it again  (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Two days passed since the Ark incident. Two days in which Tyki hadn’t awakened. You stayed by his side the entire time, sitting in a chair next to his bed. You hardly slept; he didn't allow you to. Every now and then, you would hear him, and it broke your heart to see him writhing in pain in bed, his moans and groans keeping you alert.

In these two days, you hadn't been able to get rid of the oppression in your chest that’s been overwhelming you since Adam returned to the new Ark with Tyki slung over his shoulder. Your mouth had gone dry, and your stomach churned. You rushed to them, and the Earl told you what had happened in a more optimistic tone than you would have liked to hear at that moment. He left Tyki in your care, fully trusting that you could handle it alone, and then he left, leaving you with the unconscious Noah. Since then, you've stayed by his side, wiping the sweat from his face and managing to feed and give him water.

Road visited you, but you noticed something was off about her. Her movements seemed oddly calculated, her eyes lacked their usual sparkle, her voice was weak, and you were sure her hair color dulled occasionally. You deduced that she hadn't come out of the battle unscathed and was tired, whether much or little. You sent her to recover, and somewhat reluctantly, she obeyed, not without warning you to be careful, the man you were caring for so lovingly might not be your partner. After reminding you to call her or Sheryl in case of an emergency, she left.

A growl brought you back to reality. Tyki was trembling, curled up. You dampened a clean cloth in fresh water and tried to uncover his face, which he kept hidden under the blankets.

"Tyki?" you asked, leaning over him on the bed. "Love?"

The Noah's growls grew louder, and in a movement you didn't fully understand, you fell to the floor along with the chair you had been anchored to for the past two days. The blankets moved as if there were a fight underneath, and you knew what it was.

The tentacles were not new to you; you had seen them before, hours after the Earl returned with Tyki, to be exact. You had already learned not to get too close in those moments. The small cut on your right palm started to bother you—a mark that would stay as a reminder of the first incident, a visible and tangible sign of the lesson learned.

Without standing up, you slowly crawled away from the bed. You sat in the corner near the door in case you needed to leave, and with your eyes fixed on the movement of the sheets, you waited. The growls intensified, the sheets tore, and the tentacles waved, twisted, and abruptly stopped. You could see how the Noah's back slowly straightened. His hair, now long, cascaded from his shoulders, and you couldn't help but shiver. The cold silence of the room chilled your bones. Your trembling fingers tried to grip the wooden floor, scratching it. In a blink, the Noah's figure towering above you.

And you could see his golden eyes. Those eyes you had seen thousands of times before, the same eyes that not long ago looked at you with the love and tenderness of the most devoted lover, now stared at you coldly and expressionlessly. This wasn’t Tyki.

You automatically understood the situation. You scanned the room frantically with your gaze, looking for Lero, but he wasn't there. Your breath caught, your heart stopped, and you bit your lips to stifle the small sob that fear had left in your throat.

You slipped a hand under the skirt of your dress; you had some talismans hidden in your stockings for emergencies, thinking, you could stop Joyd long enough to find Lero and improvise from there.

With a rough shove, the Noah pulled you from the corner and dragged you to the carpet in the center of the room while you took out the talismans and hid them in your sleeve. Before you could even remember the spell to use them, Joyd straddled you, a predatory smile on his lips and a sadistic gleam in his eyes. He leaned closer, buried his face in the crook of your neck, and inhaled deeply. Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. You could see his posture relax, starting with the muscles in his shoulders followed by his back. He rested his forehead on your shoulder and slid his arms around your waist, hugging you tightly and nuzzling into your chest.

You waited for him to do something else, but that something never came.

"Tyki?" you asked again. Your shoulders tensed involuntarily when you heard him growl. "Joyd!" you corrected yourself immediately. "Joyd, Joyd," you repeated. "I'm sorry."

He nuzzled against you a bit more, and you couldn't help but giggle. Moved by tenderness, you hugged him back, and you could swear he started to purr.

It wasn't Tyki who controlled the body, but it was his body, and you remembered this when moved by instinct, you planted a soft kiss on his forehead before cuddling him to your chest. His body was so familiar that touching it felt easy, natural, right.

You stayed embraced for a while, the tik-tok of the clock and the loud growls of Joyd lured you to rest until he lifted his face slightly, just enough for your eyes to meet. And there it was. They were still the same golden eyes but now shone with an affection you knew by heart.

"Name?" Tyki asked in a husky voice. His eyes were half-closed, like someone who had just woken up.

"Yes?" you whispered, holding his gaze, your voice a fragile and warm murmur. A sound that felt comforting in the cold silence of the dark room.

He buried his face in your chest again. "Nothing," he sighed. He was too tired and in too much pain to think. The warmth and comfort of your embrace kept him sleepy and calm.

You slid a hand through his hair, lulling him, while the other traced circles on his back.

"I'm glad to hear you again."

[strangevynl]

slipping through the cracks | k.sm x afab!reader. angst

Authors note: was bored so I asked ChatGPT for a prompt to write so here :)

Seungmin sat alone in the dimly lit room, the soft hum of the air conditioning his only company. The hours had drifted by as he stared at the clock on the wall, each tick a cruel reminder of the time slipping away. His heart ached with a heaviness he couldn’t quite explain, a sensation that had become all too familiar in recent weeks.

His phone buzzed softly on the table beside him, but he ignored it, unable to muster the energy to check the messages. They were from her—always from her. He had been avoiding her calls, avoiding her messages, because he didn’t know how to face her after everything.

The relationship had started out with such promise, their connection seemingly effortless. But as the months went by, cracks had begun to show. Seungmin had been consumed by his responsibilities, his career, and the pressure of living up to expectations. She had been patient, understanding, always supporting him even when it seemed he was drifting further away.

But one evening, as they sat together in their favorite café, the conversation had turned into a confrontation. She had tried to voice her feelings, her frustration at the way he had been shutting her out. Seungmin, overwhelmed and defensive, had reacted poorly, his words sharper than he intended. The argument ended with her walking out, leaving behind an air of unspoken goodbyes.

The days following the argument were a blur. He had wanted to reach out, to apologize, but something held him back. His pride? His fear of admitting he was wrong? Perhaps it was both. And now, the thought of facing her after everything was unbearable. He knew the damage had been done, that the hurt was deep, but he wasn’t sure if it was too late to fix it.

A knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts. His heart raced, a mix of hope and dread. He opened the door to find her standing there, looking tired but resolute. Her eyes met his, a silent storm of emotions passing between them.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly. “I needed to talk.”

Seungmin nodded, stepping aside to let her in. They sat across from each other, the silence heavy between them. He could see the hurt in her eyes, and it cut through him like a knife.

“I’m sorry,” he began, his voice breaking. “I didn’t know how to handle everything. I thought I could keep going without acknowledging how much I was hurting you.”

She looked down, her fingers twisting nervously. “I understand you have your responsibilities, Seungmin. But when you shut me out, it felt like you were choosing everything else over me. Over us.”

He reached out, gently touching her hand. “I never meant to make you feel that way. I was scared, and I let my fear control my actions. I should have been honest with you.”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she met his gaze. “I needed you to be there for me, just like I’ve always tried to be there for you. I’m not sure if we can go back to how things were, but I needed you to know how much you hurt me.”

Seungmin’s heart ached with the weight of her words. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “I know I’ve made mistakes, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make things right. Please, give me a chance.”

She took a deep breath, her tears falling freely now. “I need time to think. I don’t know what the future holds for us, but I hope we can find a way to heal from this.”

As she turned to leave, Seungmin felt a pang of desperation. “I’ll wait for you,” he said quietly. “No matter how long it takes.”

The door closed behind her, and Seungmin sat alone once more, the silence in the room now filled with the promise of change and the hope of redemption. He knew the road ahead would be difficult, but he was ready to face it, determined to rebuild what had been broken and to fight for the love that still lingered in his heart.

Days turned into weeks, and the silence between Seungmin and her became a constant, aching presence in his life. Each day he struggled to balance his responsibilities and the lingering sense of loss. The guilt weighed heavily on him, a reminder of the words left unspoken and the hurt he had caused.

Seungmin threw himself into his work, hoping that by immersing himself in his career, he could drown out the pain. But no matter how busy he was, the thoughts of her lingered, each memory a sharp reminder of the love he had nearly lost.

One evening, as he was walking home from the studio, Seungmin spotted her sitting alone on a park bench. The sight of her took him by surprise, and his heart skipped a beat. She looked up as he approached, her expression a mix of sadness and resolve.

“Seungmin” she said, her voice steady but soft.

He took a seat beside her, the familiar warmth of her presence both comforting and painful. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said quietly.

She nodded, looking out at the darkening sky. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About us. About everything that happened.”

Seungmin’s heart pounded in his chest. “And?”

She took a deep breath, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I’ve realized that I can’t keep holding onto the hurt. It’s consuming me, and it’s not fair to either of us. I need to forgive you, not just for your sake, but for my own.”

Seungmin felt a wave of relief mixed with trepidation. “I’ve been trying to find the right way to make amends. I know I can’t undo the past, but I want to show you that I’m willing to change.”

She turned to him, her eyes searching his face. “It’s not just about changing, Seungmin. It’s about understanding. I need to know that you’re willing to prioritize us, not just when it’s convenient but when it’s hard too.”

He nodded earnestly. “I understand. I’ve been selfish, and I see now that love is more than just words. It’s about actions, and I’m ready to show you through mine.”

A faint smile appeared on her lips, though it was tinged with sadness. “I’m not sure what the future holds for us, but I do want to try. I want to see if we can find a way back to each other, but it’s going to take time.”

Seungmin reached out, gently taking her hand in his. “I’m willing to wait. I’ll be here, doing everything I can to earn back your trust and show you that I value what we have.”

They sat in silence, the cool breeze carrying the sounds of the city around them. For the first time in weeks, Seungmin felt a glimmer of hope. It was the beginning of a new chapter, one where healing and understanding would be the foundation.

As they stood to leave, Seungmin glanced at her with a newfound determination. “Thank you for giving us a chance,” he said softly.

She nodded, squeezing his hand before letting go. “Let’s take it one day at a time.”

As they walked away from the park, side by side but not yet entirely together, Seungmin felt a cautious optimism. The road ahead was uncertain, but he was ready to navigate it, step by step, with the hope of rekindling the love they once shared.

©️strangevynl

🏷️ : none yet

[pyrrhiccomedy]

I've been using an ai called "claude" a lot. I asked it how to do something in python, and it patiently explained it to me. When my code didn't work, I showed it my code and it told me what mistake I made. Then I fixed the mistake and it worked. This feels insanely cool and useful to me. Also, when I asked claude if you could infuse garlic into olive oil without heat, it said "maybe, but it's not recommended because you might get botulism." Maybe it's just google gemini specifically that sucks?

I've found far more uses for genAI in my personal projects than I have found professionally, because there are no stakes to my personal projects. Sure, genAIs can sometimes be very helpful! But all of them - Claude, Gemini, ChatGPT, Copilot, whatever else might be out there at this point - can be wrong. And their wrong answers look exactly like their right answers.

This is fine, if you're just coding from home, or creating French lessons for yourself, or whatever. But if my boss is going to see what I'm making, then I'm doing it myself, or I'm spending so much time fact-checking the AI output that I might as well have done it myself.

Maybe in another five years this technology will have become reliable enough that the time saved by using it isn't completely offset by the risk of it hallucinating something and making you look like an absolute fucking jackass in front of your VP, or your customer. But we're not there yet.

[melmedarda]

I’m sorry to jump in your inbox with that long af rant, but I’ve been lurking and loving every Meljay post of yours since day one and I need to scream in the void.

I’m inconsolable over how bad the writing of acts 2 and 3 was, it literally feels like it was written by a completely different team. What even was that conversation, it sounded like they asked ChatGPT to write a scene based on top 50 tweets about Mel and Jayce after 1x05 aired back in the days.

I’ve never in 15 years seen a ship so cruelly ruined, because how are people supposed to continue at all tolerating Jayce with that idiotically out of character dialogue in 2x08 between him and Mel? What a fucking bad way to treat fans, having them invested all the way until literally the last moment, it already was bad with how the majority of people (fandom, reactors, obviously the artists too) were “interpreting” Mel (if you can even call it that, cause interpretation requires media literacy), but now they have left us so burnt that I'm betting there aren’t even going to be fix-it fics because they. Just. Ruined. Jayce, so bad. And I still love the well written (still flawed tho!) Jayce from 3x01 (setting up a way more natural conflict-to-be-resolved path when he made those weapons five minutes after Mel vowed to protect his dream), but damn, I love Mel so much more, I really don’t know how to cope with all that. Only people who’ve had the luck to not have been treated as that husk of an AU Jayckass treated our girl can’t see the amount of PTSD that scene can trigger in a woman. I am so frustrated with how the creators treated her trauma and slashed the wounds wide open with both that and “You are the wolf”, I genuinely don’t know how to cope.

And the worst part is all of this could have been resolved with a single touch and him being open to her – like he always have been – just tell her he’s doomed instead of showing us a highly specific and unrelated two frames of the voidy-looking infection on his forearm spreading every time he is on screen. Even if that is one of their “yes we meant that all along we just wanted to show not tell it” like with the whole idiotic Sky/Viktor backstory that Overton “spilled” the other day. Jayce has been able to see through Mel’s shields the moment he saw her painting and was always shown to admire her intellectual prowess, he’d never leave her hanging like that.

If they wanted to write a Shakespearean tragedy so bad they made this intro scream “look at us, we gave you Greek last time, now it’s all about good ol’ Billy” why not have Jayce make the same impossible choice (as they brilliantly and am starting to think accidentally?) made Silco do in 1x09, having him choose between his love for Zaun and his love for Jinx, drawing one final parallel between the two men and closing that loop with Jayce/Silco carrying Viktor’s/Jinx’s body and infusing them with the deus ex machina. It was right there staring them at their faces, have Jayce choose between his love for Mel and his love for his brother.

What a spectacular failure of writing, what an even more monumental failure of the artists to come out with those comments, so now I don’t even want to praise their talent, because they should have kept their mouths fucking shut and stuck to drawing.

Sorry to dump this in your ask, can you tell I’m still reeling.

Please, please, do you have any headcanons, I need crumbs, I need to heal my soul and Mel’s.

Lovely anon you've but into words what all Meljay fans are feeling, I think. I cannot lie, I've been trying to let go of the ship. Withdraw sort of, especially since that was the ending we got. But I've had them for three years, and they've sunk their claws too deeply to me. I'm still thinking of them even now. I'm going to make the most of their divorce era, and I'm going to make them return to each other in ever single AU ever. Because Arcane S2 act #3 is not my Meljay. Also, AU Jayckass had me bursting out in laughter!

On the topic of headcanons. I have one in which when Vik tells Jayce to go back, Jayce does. He returns to Piltover but too much time has past, Mel has already burned his name and departed across the waters to Rokrund. Jayce knows he's done her wrong, realizes he's been blinded, and he does his best to atone in Piltover and Zaun, writing letters to Mel. Letters that go unanswered. And then eventually, he goes to Rokrund, and finds a different woman, one stronger and colder than he had known. He loves her anyways, and spends his years winning her back. And when he has groveled sufficiently, Mel takes him back. He sort of grounds her, so that she does not remain the wolf all the time. So that she does not become her mother.

[olailamajnoon]

The Justice League was mid-discussion about a No Doubt Very Important Mission™ when Zatanna suddenly raised her hand and, without waiting to be called upon, said as loudly as it was possible for her (which was loud enough, given that she was trained in opera) “Batman, have you been snooping on my ChatGPT history?"

Since this was both a ridiculous question from Zatanna as well as a plausible thing for Batman to do, the rest of the team looked at Batman.

Batman looked up from his notes, fixing Zatanna with his trademark deadpan glare. "No."

"Hmm.” Zatanna frowned into her screen, tapping away. “Maybe I'm paranoid. I've always suspected that I was paranoid." There was a smattering of throat-clearings from around the room. 

“You know,” she continued, “snooping would be a really creepy thing for you to do. ChatGPT is my best friend.” She was seemingly being unironical. 

Batman did not miss a beat. "That’s sad."

The room was not silent, but neither was it noisy. There was just the right amount of sound to indicate that people were amused, but not willing to be audible about it.

Zatanna looked up indignantly at the sound. "Excuse me, I’ll have you all know that ChatGPT is very supportive. For example I asked her ‘Is Batman an asshole?’ And she keeps saying, ‘No, Batman is a superhero and a symbol of justice in Gotham.’"

Batman sighed the put-upon sigh of someone dealing with something they considered too beneath them to acknowledge. Zatanna shot a look at Batman. "But then I asked a bunch of people around you, and they say you are. So who should I believe?"

His face was unamused. "Believe whatever gets this meeting back on track."

The meeting went on, but with Zatanna typing furiously into her tablet. After a minute, she groaned dramatically. "Ugh, GPT keeps fighting me! ‘Batman isn’t by definition an asshole because he saves lives!’ Blegh."

“You have a problem,” said Batman. 

Barry grinned. “Maybe ChatGPT’s just scared of Batman."

"I mean,” said Cyborg, considering, “it—sorry, she” (this was from Zatanna’s stare) “knows everything, right? She’s probably seen what he can do."

Two seconds later, Zatanna almost jumped out of her seat with excitement. “Aha! I got her to admit that Batman’s sometimes an asshole."

The League was looking at her, intrigued and trying to hide it. Batman exhaled a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had finally recognized this wasn’t going anywhere. "Really,” he said, not having to feign any feigned interest. “How did you manage that."

"By informing her how you boss everyone around, and beat up people you don’t like."

"She’s… not entirely inaccurate,” said Superman. 

Batman ignored that and fixed Zatanna with a steady glare. "Do you plan on contributing anything useful to this meeting, or should I add you to the list of people I ‘beat up because I don’t like'?"

Zatanna narrowed her eyes at him, and pressed a few keys on her tab, putting her ear to the tinny voice emanating from the speaker. “Congratulations. GPT’s upgraded you to ‘complete asshole’,” she informed him.

“What a tremendous blow to my ego,” said Batman. "How will I ever survive." He tried to carry on with the mission briefing. “Where was I.” 

“You were talking about how the world was going to end in seventeen minutes,” Superman supplied helpfully. 

Batman glanced at his watch. “Fifteen, now. Thank you, Zatanna.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, unhelpfully.

[mymomisdead22]

i asked ChatGPT to describe satosugu and it’s hurting me:

“They were the definition of “it’s always you.” The kind of connection that burns too bright, too intense, destined to either change the world or destroy them both. They met, and suddenly, nothing else mattered. It was them against everything—two sides of the same coin, always in sync, always knowing what the other needed without saying a word.

But love like that? It never stays simple. One of them wanted to save the world, to be the hero. The other? He saw the world for what it was—broken, ugly, and not worth saving unless it was torn down first. And yeah, maybe he wasn’t wrong. Maybe he was right. But the way he started changing, the way he let that darkness take over? It was like watching someone you love drown, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t pull them back.

They were soulmates, sure. But the kind that were never meant to last. The kind of love that hurts because it’s not about not loving each other—it’s about not being able to love the same way. One wanted to hold on, to fix it, to fix him, but the other had already let go, convinced his path was the only way to make the world right.

In the end, it wasn’t the world that broke them. It was their love for each other, and the way they loved differently. Tragic, inevitable, and written in the stars, but still… if things had been different, they could’ve had everything. And they’ll both never stop knowing that.”

yeah so basically end me 😔💔

[yorickish]

frustration trying to figure out this tricky little geometrical problem led me to ask chatgpt in desperation. people seem to reasonably trust it for shit you can't google easily. it totally ate shit and suggested reasonable-sounding but incorrect things that wasted my time checking them out, and then when prompted with the specific problems with its proposed solutions, bullshitted up some fix that sounded plausible but didn't actually work. this repeated 3-4 times until I gave up

[disciplinedselfrya]

Let's get in shape! 🌟💪🍁

Before I dive into my autumn goals, I want to be real with you, loves.

Over the past month, I haven’t been eating healthy at all, and the only workout I’ve done is my dance classes. As you’d expect, I’ve gained some fat and lost muscle.

So, I’ve decided to start a "getting-fit" journey, beginning this Monday (September 9th). ❤

Before I explain what this journey is all about, let me be clear: I’m not doing this to lose weight, get skinny, or fit into a smaller size. What I truly want is to feel strong and healthy—to be in shape. And yes, reaching my goals means losing some fat, but I’m not going to sacrifice my mental health or harm my body just to drop a size. My body is my home, and it deserves respect.

On this journey, my focus will be on optimizing my nutrition and workout routine because I want this to be a lifestyle change, not just a short-term fix.

In terms of food:

Cut out ultra-processed foods.

Drink only lemonade, water, and tea—no juices (this one’s easy since I don’t like them anyway).

Sweets only on special occasions or when I’m out with friends or family.

Limit refined carbs. Potatoes (not fried) and rice are fine. Since I’m not in charge of cooking, there will be times when I’ll eat pasta or pizza. On those days, I’ll have half the usual portion and get back on track quickly.

Stick to simple, unprocessed dairy like cottage cheese, Greek yogurt, and butter. Milk is okay, but I don’t really like the taste.

Limit nuts.

Fruits, veggies, eggs, meat, and fish are unlimited—I can eat as much as I want.

No calorie counting! It messes with my mindset and makes me anxious.

That’s it. We’re starting on Monday, loves—are you with me?

Now, let’s talk about workouts. Since school is starting, I want to keep my workout schedule simple and easy to stick to because there’s no room for failure this year. I’m not even going to make failure an option.

Here’s the plan:

Monday: Dance class

Tuesday: Full-body dumbbell workout

Wednesday: Dance class

Thursday: Full-body dumbbell workout

Friday: Cardio (whatever feels good—running, dancing, walking)

Saturday: Full-body dumbbell workout

Sunday: Rest day

You might be wondering why I have three full-body sessions per week. When I was creating this plan, I asked ChatGPT for advice based on my goals, and it recommended full-body sessions for both fat loss and strength building—so that’s what I’m going with right now.

Note: Not all my dance classes are intense. I’ve had weeks where we focused on hand movements—so, you can imagine how "sweaty" that was. 😅

If you’re joining me on this journey, feel free to adjust anything that doesn’t work for you! If you prefer Pilates over weights, go for it. If cutting out sweets entirely doesn’t feel right, then don't! The most important part of this journey is not giving up—stick to your plan and prioritize your health over the results.

Keep going! 😎🏆 Rya

[dirty-urie]

Use My Body

5.6k Words

Warnings: Public sex

Author's Note: Hi all :) I'm posting this as a late birthday present for someone. But if it's bad then ChatGPT wrote the whole thing and not me.

“Brendon! I need your body!” You call from your home office.

“Coming, dear!” He shoots back. After about thirty seconds, he strolls in, looking sexy as always. He must have come from working out in the garage because he's shirtless, flushed, and a little sweaty. Not gross sweaty, just shiny and warm. “What do you need?”

You finish the sentence you're on and wrench your eyes away from your computer screen. You spin around in your chair to face him. “I need to see if a scene is possible. Can we block it together?”

His face lights up. “Hell yeah!” He gives you a hand and pulls you up out of your chair against his body.

You let him get one long kiss in before you let him down gently. “Don’t look so excited, baby. I’m on a deadline. Your pants have to stay on.” You sigh. You really wish he could fuck you right now.

Brendon pouts. “That’s no fun.”

You make a sympathetic noise. “There, there. You’ll survive. Now, uh, get on your knees and sit back on your heels,” you instruct, pointing to the bed.

Brendon scrambles onto the bed and assumes the correct position. It's purely luck that you work from the guest room and always have access to a bed for workshopping, but it's fucking brilliant and you don't know what you'd do without it. “Are you comfy? How are your knees?” you ask.

“Yeah, it feels fine.” He stretches back on his hands, arching his back. “I'm glad you force me to stay limber,” he laughs. “I'm in better shape than my twenties.”

You snatch your notepad off your desk, jotting that down. You toss your notepad onto the bed and straddle Brendon's lap, already questioning how realistic this position is. Your tits are almost right in his face for one, and you're not sure how much leeway either of you has for movement. “Hm. Do you think you could thrust into me like this?”

Brendon pushes up against your cunt through your jeans. You feel him throbbing. You’re caught by surprise, snapping you out of your concentration. You have to bite your lip to keep from snickering. He's too easy. “How are you already hard? I just climbed on top of you.”

He pecks your lips. “You know you get me absolutely raring to go, baby.” He winks. “but admittedly, you interrupted a proofreading session- I was already halfway there.”

You have to fight back a smile, but it creeps into your cheeks anyway. “So the new chapters I sent you are good?”

Brendon gives you a “no shit they're good” look. The man is going to give you an ego. “That scene right before Carter and her dude get engaged. That's based on our honeymoon, right?”

You’re thrilled he recognizes it. It's maybe your favorite sex scene you've written. You nod, swallowing hard. “Fuck. You were being a fucking tease all day in those black swim shorts that hugged your ass just right. And you kept checking me out in my bikini, and I could see your fucking cock swelling through them. But you made us wait until we're in bed together and sunkissed and couldn't keep our hands off each other.” Brendon nibbles your neck, briefly making your brain go totally fuzzy. “It was your first time without a condom, and not having that barrier between us felt so special.”

“I came so fast,” Brendon remembers fondly. “A couple minutes I think? Less than five definitely. You were pissed, baby. I think you contemplated divorce right then and there.”

You sigh in content. “Until I realized you fucking stayed hard. Which I swear is not possible, and if my editor read it in a draft, she'd say it's unrealistic and I need to fix it. But it happened, and your hot come was inside me while your cock was inside me, and you were moving your hips in perfect time with my heartbeat.” You grind on his erection absent-mindedly. “Any chance of you pulling that off again?”

He shakes his head. “Believe me, if I could, I would. Can you imagine the bragging rights?”

You roll your eyes. “Please don't brag about your cock.”

“You're the one writing about our sex life for thousands to read.” He smirks. “Speaking of, do I get a writing credit? Some of that dialogue sounded awfully familiar.”

“Not my fault that you represent the pinnacle of dirty talk, baby.”

“Yeah? You like it when I talk about how I can feel your pussy even through all this fabric, and it's driving me fucking crazy because I know you'd be hot and wet and pulsing around me right now?”

Fuck, you know where this is going, and it does not end with your manuscript being submitted on time. “Bren-” Your protestations are cut off by him bucking hard against you. He knows your body well, knows where to put pressure, so that your whole body lights up.

“You like hearing me talk about how as soon as I'm released from my husbandly duties, I'm going to jack off and look at pictures from our honeymoon and finish your fucking incredible sex scenes and come hard and loudly in our bed? And how I'm going to send you voice messages while I do it because I know that's the best way to cure your writer’s block?” His voice is low and husky. “But you know you won't need voice messages because you'll hear me across the house.” He slides his hands down your back to grab your ass, rocking you forward on his dick and then allowing you to slide back before he rocks you forward again. “You know the very thought of my girl’s fucking perfect pussy makes it impossible to stay quiet.”

You whimper. “Bren, baby, l have work to do.” He ignores you, increasing his tempo. He buries his face in your breasts, sucking gently on the sensitive skin. You're so glad you wore a low-cut top. “Fuck, fuck. Harder,” you plead.

He grabs your ass harder, practically slamming you forward. “Yeah, darling, I can thrust a little,” he pants, finally answering you. “But you'd have to bounce on my cock. You’d have to ride me like the perfect cockslut you are.”

God, he's a calculated bastard, waiting until you've found the perfect groove to fulfill what you called him in for. You throw your head back, giving him better access to your cleavage.

Brendon smiles before he slows to a stop. You continue to wiggle on him incessantly. “Baby, I gotta let you work. I'll stop being a tease.”

You disregard him, sliding along his length and moaning rhythmically. The seam of your pants presses against your clit perfectly.

“God, you're fuckin’ pretty,” Brendon marvels, squeezing your ass again. “But c’mon, I'm your biggest fan. I need more content. The way you incorporated the motif with the cigarettes? Fucking brilliant.”

You clench your teeth, arousal burning deep in your stomach.

“And the way you wrote their emotions was almost palpable. So good, honey.”

And you're coming. You’re nearly screaming as your body convulses in pleasure. “Bren, shit, coming,” you choke out. “Fuck! You're so good,” you shriek, rubbing hard and fast on him.

You slump forward bonelessly. Brendon eases you off his lap onto your back and lies down next to you. “Are you-” you inhale, struggling to catch your breath. “Are you going to apologize to me?” you demand.

Brendon rolls onto his side towards you, so you can see his face. He's smiling slightly in amusement. “For?”

The absolute nerve of this guy. The audacity. You want to fuck him so bad. “For disrupting my writing session!”

“Hmm, depends.” He brushes your hair behind your ear. “Are you going to apologize to me?”

You furrow your brows. “What did I do?”

His eyes snap toward his crotch. “Forcing me to change my pants.”

The crease between your brows only deepens in further confusion. “Did you…?” you trail off, letting him fill in the blanks. You don't remember feeling or hearing him come.

He laughs softly, pressing his pelvis forward. You can clearly feel his erection. Brendon recovers quickly, but not this quickly. Not outside of your honeymoon that is. “Darlin', you came. Hard. And messily.”

You blush. “I didn't think it would have soaked through to your pants.”

He takes your wrist and guides it to the front of his pants to feel. The soaked fabric clings to his cock. You scramble for the button of his pants, struggling to get them open with one hand. Brendon pulls you away- gently but firmly.

You whine wordlessly, begging him with your eyes.

“You have to finish writing,” he says, his voice a warning.

His subtle slip into dominance just makes you want him more. “And you have to get off,” you argue. You slip out of his grasp, but he catches you before you can go back to groping him.

You exhale. “Fine. I'll behave myself. Thanks for your help.”

“Any time.” He winks before he climbs out of bed and kisses your forehead. “Do your job, baby. I'm very proud of you.”

You melt. “Aww thanks.”

He gets about halfway through the door before your orgasm-induced haze clears enough to remember the other reason you called him. “Wait- Brendon,” you stop him.

Brendon turns around quickly, leaning against the door frame and facing you. “What's up?”

“Are you coming to my book signing tomorrow?” You try to stay neutral in your question, but you're secretly begging the universe he says yes. He'll make the day so much more fun.

“Uhh, let me check.” He pulls out his phone to look at his calendar. “Well, I can, but I probably shouldn't.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I show up at too many, people are just going to go for a shot at meeting me. I don't want to take attention away from you,” he explains.

You scoff. His beautiful and talented and smart, but his ego is a little too much sometimes. “Honey, first of all, your fans are going to show up anyway. And second of all, is it to crazy to think that I might have a following of my own because of my best-selling erotic novels?” You're not offended, but you're slightly annoyed.

He raises his hands in surrender. “No, you're right, I was trying to be considerate and supportive, but I just made myself sound like an ass.”

“Well you are an ass,” you retort, but it's playful.

“You are what you eat?” Brendon offers unsure. He purses his lips and squints his eyes in consideration of his own joke.

You throw a pillow at him, laughing. “Whose ass are you eating? Because it's certainly not mine,” you say. “If I called you a pussy? Sure. A dick? Maybe. So many weed brownies that you can't move because the first one didn't kick in right away? Of course.”

He scoops the pillow up from the ground. “Point taken.”

“So you're coming to my signing?”

He blows you a kiss, pivoting to walk out of the room. “Of course. Anything from my gorgeous,” he lowers his voice, “bossy,” he raises it again, “perfect wife.”

“For that you’re driving!” you call after him.

“Bossy!” He retorts.

•••

You shut the book, and, to your relief, applause fills the packed library auditorium. Brendon shoots you a grin and thumbs up from the front row before clapping along with everyone else. He's wearing stereotypical “I'm a secret celebrity” attire: hoodie, sunglasses, hat. You're pretty sure he's just drawing more attention to himself, but you're so glad he's there regardless.

You feel your heart rate settle back to baseline now that the hard part is over. You were terribly nervous to read new material aloud for so many people, but it went extremely well in your opinion. The audience was on the edge of their seats- including the boyfriends who got dragged along against their will. You even noticed a few people who got so worked up they had to excuse themselves partway through. You'd call that a success.

The applause dies down after a few seconds, and you clap your hands together to transition to the next segment. “Okay! I think I have time for a few questions before the signing.” To your surprise, about twenty hands shoot into the air. Sweat beads on your temple, a combination of the stage lights, physical exertion, and nerves.

“I don't have time for everyone,” you say apologetically. “But I will try my best! You in the purple, you in the back, and then you with the hat.”

A young woman in a purple sweater stands up. “Um, I was just wondering if you write from experience?” Her voice shakes a little, and you feel for the girl.

Your eyes flit to Brendon, who’s grinning. “Well, I've never been kidnapped by the mafia, so no,” you joke, referencing your first and least favorite book. The audience laughs lightly with you. You got pressured into writing a mafia romance by your publisher at the time in exchange for an almost life-changing advance. You got your foot in the door, but you think mafia romances are horribly uninspired, unrealistic, and immature. You love your share of cliches, but you wish you hadn't agreed to sell your soul a little. Plus the royalties are abysmal.

The next person in your queue stands to speak, a larger woman in a floral dress. “Hey! I love your books.”

You smile warmly. “Thank you. I worked hard on them!”

“My question is where you find inspiration to write.”

Brendon mostly, you think to yourself. Sometimes you'll have such an incredible session with him that you have to put it to paper. But you can't very well say that. “Everywhere really,” you answer aloud. “Music, movies, other books. My favorite is people-watching at the beach. I've even had some dreams that heavily influenced my writing. And yes,” you make eye contact with the woman in purple, “real life experiences.” You know you're speaking fast, but you’re slightly rushing to get to more people. “Uh, let’s see, who’s next?”

Hat guy stands up, staring at his phone. You think he's an inconsiderate douche, but he redeems himself once he starts talking. He's clearly reading from the screen. “My girlfriend is in surgery, but she has asked me to tell you she's your biggest fan.” He talks with a bit of an accent, but you can't quite place it. He pauses to scrolls down. “And she would like to know how you write such realistic sex scenes.”

The crowd murmurs excitedly.

You find it fascinating that everyone is gathered to hear you read from an erotic novel, but the explicit mention of sex still feels rebellious and taboo. You don't look down at Brendon this time, but you feel him staring at you smugly. It's like all your fans conspired together to indirectly ask about your sex life with your husband. “Tell your girlfriend thank you, and I hope her surgery goes well,” you say to start. “I'm not sure if she's performing it or receiving it, but my best regards either way.”

You weren't quite making a joke, but everyone- hat guy included- laugh politely.

You walk across the stage. “Has she considered maybe you're just copying your moves from my books, and that's why my scenes are so evocative of her experience?” you ask cheekily.

The man doesn't get flustered. “Ah, you have figured out my secret.”

Another round of tittering and chattering rolls through the room.

You wait a beat for everyone to settle down. “Well, let's keep it between us then. Tell her that my sex scenes come from a lot of research,” you answer. “Most of it far less saucy than I'm sure you guys are imagining, unfortunately. Quite academic. But some is hands-on. Or mouth-on when needed.” You wink.

You’re glad when you get the signal to wrap it up because you fear you've already said too much. “Okay, that's my time, but I will be signing books in the lobby in just a few minutes.” You wave the audience away, smiling. “You guys have been lovely. Thank you for showing up.”

People file out of the auditorium, conversing with each other excitedly.

The auditorium has a door that connects to your small makeshift green room that you eagerly retreat to. You collapse on a folding chair and chug a bottle of water. Your job isn't physically taxing, but it's deceivingly exhausted to be on “on” mode for an extended period of time. It reminds you of your job as a cashier before you started writing full-time. The emotional labor was harder than the physical labor.

Brendon comes into the room after about five minutes. You assume he waited until the auditorium was clear and no one would notice him slip in with you. “That was fucking great,” he exclaims. “Can I get you anything right now?”

You shake your head before putting it down on the plastic table. “I don't have this signing in me,” you whine. You're going to go out there and give it your all, but you need to bitch and moan a bit first. The cool pressure from the table feels great against your forehead. You can feel a nasty tension headache forming.

“A’ight, here's the plan,” Brendon says, leaning in conspiratorially. “We'll have Marge run across the street to the Party City and buy a wig. You and I will swap clothes, and I'll do the signing. No one will know the difference.”

You exhale weakly. “I think your stubble would give it away. And your lack of tits.”

“Oh shit. I'm sorry, baby.”

You strain to pull your head up, stretching gently. “Nah, I'll be okay. Any chance you can hand me an Advil from my bag and buy me something cold and caffeinated from the vending machine?”

Brendon dons his sunglasses and pulls his hood up. He looks like Damian from Mean Girls. “On it.” He checks his watch. “Oh shit. Showtime in two. I'll hurry.”

You blow him a kiss.

•••

“Listen up, here are the rules,” your hired security guard barks at the line of guests snaking their way through the stacks “No cutting, no pushing, no holding up the line, or you will be removed from the premises and you may risk termination of your library privileges.” You and Brendon fight back laughter. This man means business. You appreciate it, but the situation is really not as serious as the ex-marine is making it out to be. “And Mr. Urie is not here to sign anything or take pictures with you, so do not ask.”

Brendon grins. “Pretend I'm not even here. I'm just keeping Y/N company,” he tells the line before burying his face back in your book.

You had to beg the director of library events to allow Brendon to sit next to you at the table. Nobody explicitly said it, but you could tell managing and protecting a “real” celebrity was a bit above everyone’s paygrade. Fortunately, a generous anonymous philanthropist donated a few thousand with explicit instructions to dedicate ninety percent to the youth music program, and the rest to the library special event budget. What a felicitous coincidence.

Once the housekeeping is in order, the first person in line scrambles up to you. She's a girl you'd definitely consider too young for your books- maybe sixteen. But you were sneaking LiveJournal smut on the family computer at sixteen, so you really can't judge. Her mom lingers awkwardly behind her, clearly trying to give the girl space without leaving her alone completely.

She fidgets anxiously. You have to hold your hands out to prompt her to hand you her book. She silently thrusts the hardcover novel into your hands, and the familiar weight of it is comforting. “Can I make it out to someone?” you ask patiently. You know you have a whole line of people waiting, but you try to make each interaction meaningful and intentional with each person. You learned that from Brendon. He told you that you won't remember meeting every fan, but every fan will remember meeting you. It's a lot of pressure to make a good impression with everyone, but it's satisfying too that you're touching so many lives.

“Oh um, Alexandra, if you don't mind- or Alex is shorter if that's easier,” the girl sputters out. “Please.”

“Alexandra is a beautiful name,” you say, jotting down: “Don't make yourself smaller for anyone else, Alexandra. - Y/N Y/L/N :)”. You shut the book and hand it back to her. You still struggle with sincerity with fans, but you hope she appreciates the message.

“Thank you so much,” she says appreciatively. She finally looks at Brendon, who she has been staunchly avoiding the gaze of. “I love you guys.”

“Thank you for coming!” you smile.

"Lovely to meet you!" Brendon chimes. Alexandra looks like she might drop dead right in front of you from Brendon's acknowledgement.

As soon as Alex leaves, the next person replaces her, and you settle into a comfortable routine. Almost everyone is extremely polite and respectful, which you hope is a positive reflection of your fanbase and not just intimidation from your security guard. You'll take it either way though.

Brendon, of course, is charming and gracious for everyone that comes up and talks to him. He stays true to his boundaries or not signing or allowing pictures, but he happily shakes hands and answers the odd music question or chats about video games while you write. You're secretly delighted that everyone in line seems to primarily be there for you with Brendon as a fun bonus for the Panic! fans. Even the people starstruck by Brendon talk about your books with enough intimate knowledge that you believe they're actual fans.

You do have the occasional sour experience. A few obvious resellers, a couple people ranting about the wait, maybe a dozen with noticeably poor hygiene. But the bad apples don't spoil the bunch, and you're generally enjoying yourself.

One thing that starts to distract you is Brendon enjoying himself too. To pass the time, he has your book open to skim when people aren't chatting with him. The deluge of sex scenes are starting to get to him. The signs are almost imperceptible, but you know him well. His breathing is quick and sharp and his face is slightly flushed. He keeps fidgeting in his seat: crossing and uncrossing his legs, tapping the table restlessly, and biting at his cheeks and lips.

You'd be able to ignore it, but you've been craving him since last night when he left before you could play with him. He has the perfect cock. The skin is soft and smooth and warm over a firm, pulsing shaft. He's big enough that you can comfortably take him in your hand and mouth while still being able to fill and stretch you, hitting all the right spots.

You know you have a floating fifteen minute break within your two hour signing window; although, you had planned to forgo it in favor of getting through as many people as possible. Security cuts off the line, but there's always a few hopeful stragglers in case you have an extra minute, and you love the satisfaction of helping them out. But you don't owe them anything, so now you're wondering if you can yank Brendon into an empty study room to pay him back the orgasm you owe him. You don't love to give blowjobs, but do you love to watch him as you suck him off. And you know he'd come fast enough. “Mrs. Y/L/N?” Or maybe you can lay back on a table and let him fuck your pussy until his knees are too weak to keep standing. “Excuse me?” The next person at the table finally manages to jerk you out of your concentration.

She smiles awkwardly without teeth. “I'm sorry- you seemed preoccupied, but I didn't want to hold up the line.” You shake your head to clear it, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

“Oh sorry, I get lost in my own head sometimes,” you apologize breathlessly. You squeeze the Sharpie.

You distractedly get through the next dozen or so people before Brendon finally sets you over the edge. He angles the book towards you and points to a line.

Damon’s mouth waters at the sight of Safa’s shiny, wet cunt. She fingers the button on the stopwatch with a smirk. “Oral for an entire hour, really?” she asks incredulously. She was amused by the idea originally, but she didn't think he would actually be able to go through with it. “Your jaw will get sore.” In truth, she doubts her own ability to stave off an orgasm more than Damon’s ability to eat her out for that long.

“Having doubts?” Damon taunts. “Because I don't have to lick this perfect pussy. We can watch a movie instead. I don't mind. I have nothing to prove.” He's bluffing slightly. He'll be crushed if he doesn't get his mouth on her.

He leans in, covering his mouth. “I'd love to do that to you, baby. Eating your pussy for a full hour? That's a fucking dream. And I'd edge myself the whole time. I’d come so hard inside you,” he whispers into your ear.

“Do you wanna go somewhere private?” you finally work up the courage to ask, internally pleading that no one nearby can hear you.

He hesitates. “Baby I- I really shouldn't stand up right now,” he explains regretfully.

You clench your teeth. Hard. You slip your hand under the table, grateful for the table cloth hiding your activity. You place your non-dominant hand firmly on Brendon's thigh, your pinky just barely grazing his cock. Brendon turns to you with wide eyes. He grabs your wrist under the table, and you almost deflate. He's right, you shouldn't touch his cock in front of all these people. But, fuck, you're aching to feel his arousal.

However, to your surprise, he doesn’t move your hand away- instead, he guides it right between his legs. You squeeze him, giving him one last warning before you start touching him. He doesn't even flinch, just focuses hard on his book. You start exploring his body eagerly through his pants to warm him up. Though, from the obvious erection you can feel through his jeans, he doesn't need much preparation.

You graze along the length of his cock before your find the swell of his balls and rub them to really give him a tease. You manage to multitask well, continuing to sign and chat as your fingers dance around the sensitive areas of Brendon's inner thighs and crotch. But Brendon gets antsy. You can feel him staring at you, willing you to give him more.

You give in rather easily, anxious to feel him directly. You unbutton his pants and then cough loudly to cover the sound of his zipper opening. The people in front ask if you’re alright, but you wave them off with your free hand and then take a swig of your Dr. Pepper, relishing in the tension of making him wait another second. You regrettably take your hand off him for a moment to slip it between your own thighs. You slide your underwear to the side under your dress and coat your palm in your slickness. The feeling of your hand against your hypersensitive cunt is heavenly, and you struggle to pull yourself away. But the moments between undoing his pants and snaking your hand into his briefs crawl by, heavy with possibility. Brendon closes his eyes, his whole face clenched in concentration. He looks visibly aroused in front of dozens of people, and you don't even care.

You finally take pity on the man, fearing audible noises of frustration if you tease him any longer. You slip your hand inside his underwear, pleased to feel him fully erect. “Baby, is that-” he hisses, referencing the wetness on your hand. You don't answer. He already knows.

You stroke him inside his pants at first, knowing you shouldn't take the risk of fully exposing him. Brendon exhales in satisfaction, but you don't have as much freedom to move as you'd like, and you imagine he feels uncomfortable trapped inside his restrictive jeans. You snake his cock out of his pants and grasp it hard. When you first became intimate with Brendon, you were far too timid. Now you know he likes you to be firm and slightly aggressive when playing with his cock.

You keep your thumb on his glans and then stroke him hard and fast. “Fuck!” Brendon exclaims, and you gasp, fearing that he's blown it for you two. He manages to recover though. He smacks the side of his neck and rubs it. “Ah, damn, neck cramp,” he explains to the people looking with concern. “Excuse my language.”

It tests the very limits of your coordination to rub circles on his sensitive head, stroke him up and down, and continue to sign. You almost misspell your own name at one point. Still- The adrenaline from your deviance makes this ten times hotter. You're acutely aware of everything happening around you, making the sensations even more intense. Your clit hums demandingly. Each of Brendon's breaths sound like moans. You're convinced someone will catch you. You dare them to catch you. That's one thing you miss about touring with Brendon- the clandestine trysts in front of band mates and road crew. You fucking love an audience. Love the thrill of sneaking around.

You sense Brendon’s having a similar experience. He's leaking precum like crazy, allowing you to stroke him even more easily. And his eyes are getting more glassy and unfocused as you continue to work. You hope he knows this is just the appetizer. When you get home, you are fully taking advantage of having your mouth and other hand at your disposal.

Even without being able to verbally communicate, you know he's close when he turns to you with frenzied, panicked eyes and bucks uncontrollably into your hand.

You don't know what to do. Your emergency stash of tissues in your backpack has been depleted by a particularly nasty allergy season, but you can't let him get come on his clothes or the table. And leaving him hanging is not an option. Brendon needs release.

You eye the line. It's down to about fifteen people. You don't think he can hold off long enough for them to be done, and, even then, you'd barely have any privacy.

So you take a risk. You allow your trusty Sharpie to slip through your fingers onto the floor under your table. “Sorry!” You say to the man you're signing for. “All this writing is making my hand cramp. I'm ready to finish! Let me just grab it.”

You make eye contact with Brendon, and he nods ever-so-slightly. You slip onto the ground onto your knees.

“Oh I can help,” the man offers, lunging forward to kneel with you.

You glance at your security guard, and he thankfully takes the cue, standing in front of the table and the line. “Stay away from Mrs. Y/L/N,” he demands. “She will finish the signings in a moment.

You crawl under the table, easily sliding your mouth on Brendon’s cock even in the darkness. You fondle his balls, but it's unnecessary. He's coming before you've even fully closed your lips around his head. Come drips down your chin as hot spurts of it shoot into your mouth. He grabs your hair instinctively, twitching violently in your mouth. For a split second, you fear he may never stop coming and you'll be trapped under this folding table and polyester tablecloth forever. He groans- clearly aroused, and you hold your breath again. “C'mon, you're taking forever with that pen,” is his cover this time. You don't think anyone’s buying it.

He finally stops coming, and you scramble to find the actual marker. “Sorry, I can't find it in the dark.” You emerge from the table, trying to surreptitiously wipe your mouth. Brendon slumps against you. You two must look utterly fucked. “Does anyone have a pen?”

People scramble to look through their pockets and bags to no avail. You're at the end of your time anyway. You smile apologetically, handing out pre-signed copies. “I'm sorry they're not personalized, but you guys take these signed copies and keep your other copy to give to a friend. Thank you all so much for coming out!”

•••

“Am I in trouble?” you ask, sliding into the passenger seat.

Brendon leans over and kisses your neck. You shiver. “Fuck no. I haven't come that fucking hard in months. And from a handjob?” He bites your earlobe. “God, those people were looking at you- were looking at me all day. Thinking about us together. And then we fucking gave them a show, didn't we?”

You laugh. “I'm glad we didn't get arrested.”

“We wouldn't have gotten arrested. I'm famous,” Brendon says. He licks his way down to your cleavage.

You squeal. “What has gotten into you?”

He pulls away. His pupils are massive. “I just fucking love you, and I'm so proud of you, and I love that you're mine.”

You stretch to kiss his cheek. “Aw, baby. Was it hard to share me with all my adoring fans?”

He shakes his head. “Love your fans. Just love that I get to take you home with me.”

“Yeah? Gonna ‘help me write’ when we get home?”

He nods eagerly. “But I may need a banana and a Gatorade first. I get the sense you're going to make me work hard.”

You laugh. “I can make that happen. Unless you wanna check for run-on sentences. You don't need to hydrate for that.”

He gives you an incredulous look. “No fucking way, pretty girl. Bend me, fuck me, tie me up however you want. I'm yours.”

You grin. “God, this sequel is going to be good.”

[mariacallous]

There’s a growing trend of people and organizations rejecting the unsolicited imposition of AI in their lives. In December 2023, the The New York Times sued OpenAI and Microsoft for copyright infringement. In March 2024, three authors filed a class action in California against Nvidia for allegedly training its AI platform NeMo on their copyrighted work. Two months later, the A-list actress Scarlett Johansson sent a legal letter to OpenAI when she realized its new ChatGPT voice was “eerily similar” to hers.

The technology isn’t the problem here. The power dynamic is. People understand that this technology is being built on their data, often without our permission. It’s no wonder that public confidence in AI is declining. A recent study by Pew Research shows that more than half of Americans are more concerned than they are excited about AI, a sentiment echoed by a majority of people from Central and South American, African, and Middle Eastern countries in a World Risk Poll.

In 2025, we will see people demand more control over how AI is used. How will that be achieved? One example is red teaming, a practice borrowed from the military and used in cybersecurity. In a red teaming exercise, external experts are asked to “infiltrate” or break a system. It acts as a test of where your defenses can go wrong, so you can fix them.

Red teaming is used by major AI companies to find issues in their models, but isn’t yet widespread as a practice for public use. That will change in 2025.

The law firm DLA Piper, for instance, now uses red teaming with lawyers to test directly whether AI systems are in compliance with legal frameworks. My nonprofit, Humane Intelligence, builds red teaming exercises with nontechnical experts, governments, and civil society organizations to test AI for discrimination and bias. In 2023, we conducted a 2,200-person red teaming exercise that was supported by the White House. In 2025, our red teaming events will draw on the lived experience of regular people to evaluate AI models for Islamophobia, and for their capacity to enable online harassment against women.

Overwhelmingly, when I host one of these exercises, the most common question I’m asked is how we can evolve from identifying problems to fixing problems ourselves. In other words, people want a right to repair.

An AI right to repair might look like this—a user could have the ability to run diagnostics on an AI, report any anomalies, and see when they are fixed by the company. Third party-groups, like ethical hackers, could create patches or fixes for problems that anyone can access. Or, you could hire an independent accredited party to evaluate an AI system and customize it for you.

While this is an abstract idea today, we’re setting the stage for a right to repair to be a reality in the future. Overturning the current, dangerous power dynamic will take some work—we’re rapidly pushed to normalize a world in which AI companies simply put new and untested AI models into real-world systems, with regular people as the collateral damage. A right to repair gives every person the ability to control how AI is used in their lives. 2024 was the year the world woke up to the pervasiveness and impact of AI. 2025 is the year we demand our rights.

[jackdaw-kraai]

The thing I think isn't talked about enough in all these conversations about "AI art" is how, even if you work out all the kinks, even if you get it to the point that it works perfectly according to the most lofty goals set, even if all that came true... AI will still disappoint when set next to even just a moderately skilled human artist. Not because of any technical flaws with the product, but because of its fundamental limitations as a tool.

AI, as we understand it right now, without all the grandstanding and doomsday predictions and near-mythological qualities we ascribe to it, works on binary. Down to its core, stripped to its studs, it works on binary code, and you see that reflected in the design. Every choice it makes, every result it produces, is a result of a million, billion "yes or no" questions asked of it that chain together into a coherent response. Endless amounts of "TRUE or FALSE" results spat out when data is fed into it, that string together to form a conversation, or an essay, or a painting, or a comic. At least, when trained on enough data to weigh the odds in favor of what the creators want it to do.

If you ask ChatGPT to tell you something about romance, it filters its endless data banks for what that training data it was given matches your request and what results in those tests were rewarded by its programmers and which were discouraged and based on all that, it begins making TRUE or FALSE choices with the odds weighed by that data. That's how all AI we currently have fundamentally work, and that, in and of itself, is not a bad thing. It's a tool, and tools are hard pressed to be evil. What it is, however, is vastly inferior to the process of a human writer for one simple fact: when asked a question, we have more options than to answer it TRUE or FALSE.

If you ask a human writer to tell you about romance, they too will draw upon all the memories they have stored away of what they know about romance and base an answer off of that. But they will also draw up all the knowledge they have on astronomy, to compare the feeling it creates inside to that of hydrogen fusing, and that of medicine, because it burns so bright inside that it feels like your rib cage feels like it should be alight from the inside until it looks like an inverted x-ray image. A human writer will visualize the way love feels and draw connections an AI couldn't fathom, because it was never trained to do so. And more than that, if a human writer tells you about romance, they won't tell you just about romance.

They will tell you about how romance happens.

They will tell you about what romance between a young Polish woman and a young Polish man living in what would one day be the powiat of Bieszczadzki on the border with Ukraine, but for now are just the Bieszczadzki mountains, in the spring of 1914 would have looked like. And they will tell you about how it looked like all the months afterwards as the young man is drafted into the army and their home is ravaged by WWI as the Bieszczadzki mountains become one of the most bitterly contested regions in the Eastern Front during the war. They will tell you about how romance, how the love blooming from it, cannot fix the damage wrought by senseless battles fought by powers so much greater than the two of them, but how it carries them through the war nonetheless.

And what's more, they will know enough about the history of Poland to parallel the growing love between these two young people with the growing, not-yet-formed modern state of Poland that will once again rise from the ashes of the war after having previously been partitioned by greater powers into non-existence.

A human writer will not only have the knowledge to do that, they will have the skills and manner of thinking necessary to form the thoughts that will lead to such a story and make it into something incredible. An AI, no matter how well you train it, no matter how good you make it at emulating a writer's style, will not be able to form the same thought process. Not because it is flawed, but because it simply isn't built for that.

An AI cannot experience nationalism or patriotism for a country, an AI cannot reason out how people might have lived in the absence of credible historic evidence when it runs up against a gap in its data, an AI will not understand the link between fragile, young love blooming in adversity and a country struggling to be reborn in spite of the greater nations around it that wish it would remain dead. It cannot do this, because it isn't based in "TRUE or FALSE" questions. It's based in the painfully human experience of complicated emotions, difficult thoughts, and yes, even deeply flawed ways of looking at the world that nonetheless are beautiful exactly for having those flaws.

An AI, at its core, with where the technology is right now, is a machine of averages. Even if we polish it to peak performance, that will not change. At peak performance, it will still give you an average of all the possible answers it could give, it will be technically flawless, and it will never be anything even close to a fraction of the lightning in a bottle that a writer with categorically shit technique can capture if their heart and mind are put into it.

And let's be honest here and step a foot outside of the bubble of speculation, just for a bit: AI will never, ever, give you an answer or story that pushes boundaries or makes you think like even the most technically incompetent but passionate authors are able to.

Because in order to push boundaries, in order to deliver a message, you have to be willing to make people uncomfortable. You have to be willing to be messy and raw to the point that your story bleeds. And even if we polished AI to perfection, even if, by some miracle of a completely new and fresh coding base, it could do all those things... the humans pulling the strings of the machine would never allow it to do so. Because if their machine produces stories that push boundaries, that have things to say, that make people uncomfortable, it's not going to be profitable. It's not going to be advertiser-friendly. It's not going to please the stock market. And let's be honest here, in the end, that's what matters to those people.

AI cannot write the stories that people want it to, that they truly want it to, because in the end, the stories we want to hear are not the stories it can tell. The stories we want to hear are, in the end, painfully human, in all the best and worst ways possible. And if you want a human story, if you want to have something like that lightning in a bottle, AI can never be more than a tool in making them instead of the maker itself. A potentially useful and innovative tool, but nothing more than that.

Because if you want human stories, no one but a human will be able to write them. And no one but a human will be able to read them and understand what's being said.