#the digital handwriting is killing me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

imreidswifey · 1 month ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

A Spencer Reid x Reader Fanfiction

Prequel

Summary: Spencer Reid is haunted by your sudden disappearance—seeing your face in empty rooms, hearing your voice in the wind. When a cryptic message arrives, suggesting you might still be alive, he embarks on a desperate search. But the truth is darker than he ever imagined. The people who took you aren’t just criminals—they’re powerful, and they’re still watching. As Spencer unravels the conspiracy, he realizes saving you might cost him everything.

Warnings:

• Kidnapping & captivity

• Violence & gun violence

• Injury & recovery

• Psychological trauma/PTSD

• Corrupt law enforcement

• Mentions of starvation & sleep deprivation

• Angst with comfort

• Happy ending

Word Count: ~15,000+ words

A/n: Soft candlelight flickering against dark walls. Old case files scattered across a desk. A worn-out motel key in Spencer’s trembling hands. The sound of rain against a safe house window. Desperate whispers in the night. Love found in the wreckage. This is a story about losing everything and fighting to get it back.

———•———•———•———•———•———•———•——–

Spencer sees you everywhere.

At the BAU, you’re leaning against his desk, arms crossed, teasing him about his mismatched socks. He looks up, expecting to see the fond exasperation in your eyes—but there’s nothing. Just his empty desk and the quiet hum of the bullpen.

At home, the scent of your shampoo lingers in the air, faint but unmistakable. He swears he hears you laughing from the kitchen, your voice mixing with the whistle of the kettle. But when he rounds the corner, there’s no one there.

In the field, in the backseat of the SUV, he hears you murmur, “What’s the profile telling you, Spence?” He turns, desperate to see you sitting beside him, but the seat is empty.

You’re gone.

It’s been seventy-four days since you vanished without a trace.

And Spencer is losing his mind.

The world doesn’t stop when someone disappears. Cases keep coming. Criminals keep killing. The BAU keeps moving forward, but Spencer is frozen in time, stuck in the moment he realized you were missing.

At first, they told him to go home, to get some rest. They said, We’ll find them, Reid. We’ll bring them back. He believed them—because he had to.

But as days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, hope became something cruel.

Garcia combed through every digital footprint you’d ever left. Emily pulled every string she could. JJ reassured him that they wouldn’t stop looking. Morgan called in old favors. Hotch kept the case open, even when the leads dried up.

But nothing. No ransom note. No body. No sign of life.

Until today.

A small, unmarked envelope arrives at his desk. No return address. No postmark. Just his name scrawled in a handwriting he would recognize anywhere—yours.

His breath catches in his throat. His hands shake as he tears it open.

Inside is a single sheet of paper. Three words, written in black ink:

Find me, Spencer.

Spencer’s heart is a war drum in his chest.

The words blur as he rereads them over and over, his fingers tightening around the paper as if it might disappear if he lets go.

Find me, Spencer.

His breath stutters. His mind races. His stomach churns.

This isn’t possible. It can’t be.

You’ve been gone for seventy-four days. No ransom demand, no digital footprint, no leads—nothing. The world had already started treating you like a ghost.

And yet, here it is. Proof.

You’re alive.

But where?

And why hadn’t you sent more?

Spencer forces himself to sit down before his legs give out. His entire body is buzzing with adrenaline, his mind spinning with possibilities, theories, patterns—he needs to analyze, needs to think.

His first instinct is to take the letter straight to the team, to Garcia, to Hotch. But a deep, unsettling feeling coils in his gut.

What if this is a trap?

What if someone wants him to make a mistake?

What if you’re in danger, and this is the only chance you’ve had to reach him?

Spencer swallows hard, his fingers gripping the paper so tightly it threatens to tear.

He needs to be careful.

He needs to be smart.

Step One: The Envelope

He forces himself to slow down. He pulls a fresh pair of latex gloves from his desk drawer and carefully picks up the envelope again, analyzing every detail.

No postmark. No stamp.

That means it was hand-delivered.

Someone walked into the FBI headquarters—one of the most secure buildings in the country—and placed this on his desk without anyone noticing.

That shouldn’t be possible.

Unless—

Unless it was someone who already belonged there.

Spencer’s pulse quickens.

Someone within the BAU?

No.

He doesn’t want to believe it, but the logic is unavoidable. If the envelope never went through the mail, then the only explanation is that someone physically placed it in the bullpen.

And not just anywhere.

On his desk.

Which means whoever delivered it knows exactly who he is.

And more importantly, they know about you.

Spencer doesn’t sleep.

He stays in his apartment, pacing, the letter sitting on his coffee table like a bomb waiting to detonate. He’s read it so many times he can see the words behind his eyelids.

Find me, Spencer.

He can still hear your voice saying it, though you never actually did. His mind fills in the gaps, desperate to make sense of something senseless.

He doesn’t know how to do this without you.

You were the one who kept him grounded, the one who reminded him to eat when he got lost in his thoughts, who pulled him back from the edge when the job nearly swallowed him whole.

And now?

Now, he’s unraveling.

The team sees it. They don’t say it out loud, but he can feel their pity like a weight on his chest.

JJ keeps checking in on him.

Emily watches him like she’s waiting for him to break.

Morgan, even from across the country, calls more than usual.

Garcia keeps sending him articles about “healthy coping mechanisms.”

But there’s nothing healthy about losing the most important person in your life.

There’s nothing healthy about seeing your face in reflections that vanish when he blinks.

Nothing healthy about hearing your laugh in empty hallways.

Nothing healthy about rereading a note a thousand times, wondering if it’s real.

Is it real?

His rational mind tells him it is. The handwriting is yours. The ink is fresh. He could analyze the paper, run tests, find out where it was bought—Garcia could track the supply chain, he could trace the fibers, find out who sent this and why—

Spencer stops.

His breathing is uneven. His hands are shaking.

He sits down, exhales.

Closes his eyes.

And then—

A whisper.

Soft. Familiar.

“Spence…”

His eyes snap open.

He swears he sees a shadow in the doorway.

A figure.

You.

But when he stands, you’re gone.

Only the letter remains.

Find me, Spencer.

By morning, Spencer has a plan.

The letter is the only lead he has, so he analyzes it like he would any piece of evidence.

The handwriting is yours—but something is off.

Your usual script is fluid, slightly slanted, with looping letters. This is similar, but the pressure is different, the strokes more deliberate. Almost like you were forced to write it.

Or like you were trying to tell him something beyond the words themselves.

Spencer leans in closer.

Think, think, think.

Then, he sees it.

A faint indentation on the lower half of the page.

Like someone wrote something beneath the letter, pressed hard enough for the ink to leave an impression.

Spencer grabs a pencil, his hands steadying as he shades lightly over the page.

Slowly—

A second message begins to appear.

His breath catches.

Three more words.

“Not much time.”

His heart pounds.

This isn’t just a note. It’s a warning.

And he’s running out of time.

The second message is carved into Spencer’s mind long after the pencil shavings settle on the coffee table.

Not much time.

He stares at the faint words until they blur together, the pressure behind his eyes building.

You’re alive.

But if you’re warning him—if someone is forcing you to write this—then every second he wastes is another second you’re in danger.

He forces himself to think.

Messages—both the obvious and the hidden—mean you’re trying to communicate without being caught. But why him? Why not the team? Why not Garcia, with all her connections and digital magic?

Because you know Spencer would be the one to look harder.

You knew he would find the second message.

You knew he would never stop looking.

He doesn’t go to the team.

Not yet.

Instead, he locks himself in his apartment and spreads everything he has across the floor—every old case file, every police report, every scrap of your life together.

Photographs.

Flight receipts.

Credit card statements.

He memorizes every pattern, searching for something—anything—that connects your disappearance to the message.

Hours bleed into the next day. He barely eats, barely moves. He traces every timeline, every possible route you could’ve taken.

But there’s nothing.

The official story is that you were last seen leaving your apartment late one night. Surveillance cameras caught you turning the corner—then you simply vanished. No signs of struggle. No digital trace. Just… gone.

But Spencer doesn’t believe in ghosts.

He believes in patterns.

He believes in you.

By nightfall, his head aches, his vision blurs, and the walls feel like they’re closing in.

He slumps against the couch, exhausted. The letter lies on the coffee table, mocking him.

He’s missed something.

He knows it.

“You always overthink,” your voice echoes in his mind—warm, teasing. “Sometimes the answer is right in front of you.”

Spencer’s eyes flick to the envelope.

Right in front of him.

His heart pounds.

He grabs it again, turning it over, feeling along the edges. Nothing.

But then—

Inside the flap—barely visible—a faint smudge of ink.

It’s not a mistake. It’s deliberate.

Spencer grabs a magnifying glass, his breath catching as he deciphers the tiny, jagged scrawl hidden in the crease.

Paris Diner. 3 AM.

The Paris Diner is the kind of place no one notices.

A hole-in-the-wall buried on the outskirts of the city. Flickering neon sign. Greasy countertops. The kind of place where memories stick to the walls and no one asks too many questions.

It’s also where you took him on your third date.

Where he told you about his mother for the first time.

Where you made him try pie at two in the morning because “you can’t trust anyone who doesn’t like pie, Spencer.”

It’s not just a clue.

It’s you.

Spencer arrives at 2:47 AM, the bell above the door jangling in the empty diner.

The place is exactly the same—dim lights, cracked leather booths, the faint smell of burnt coffee hanging in the air.

He slides into the farthest booth, his back to the wall, eyes scanning every shadow.

He waits.

Fifteen minutes.

Then thirty.

No one comes.

By 3:27 AM, doubt starts to creep in. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe the message was planted by whoever took you—luring him into a trap.

Or maybe he’s chasing a ghost.

His fingers curl around the edge of the table, frustration clawing at his chest. He’s unraveling again, coming apart at the seams.

Then—

A whisper.

Soft. Barely audible.

“Spence…”

His head snaps up.

You’re there.

For a split second, he sees you—standing in the doorway, wrapped in that worn leather jacket you always stole from him. Your hair is tangled, your eyes wide—

But when he blinks, you’re gone.

Just another hallucination.

His heart sinks.

He’s losing his mind.

The waitress comes by with a coffee pot, refilling his cup without asking.

“You waiting on someone, honey?”

Spencer swallows hard, trying to steady his voice.

“Did anyone leave something here for me?"

Her brow furrows, but she reaches into the pocket of her apron, pulling out a folded napkin.

“Said to give this to the man who ordered plain black coffee and sat in the last booth.”

Spencer’s pulse pounds as he takes it.

Another message.

Clock’s ticking, Spencer. Don’t trust anyone.

By morning, Spencer is unraveling at the seams.

The napkin is tucked inside his wallet, folded so tightly the edges have started to crumple.

He doesn’t trust anyone.

Not the waitress.

Not the team.

Not even himself.

His mind is spinning—fractured between logic and desperation.

Why are you doing this? Why aren’t you telling him more? Why are you making him chase you?

Unless—

Unless someone’s watching you.

Unless you’re trying to lead him without giving too much away.

Unless you’re trying to protect him.

He goes off-grid.

No calls. No texts.

He works alone—just like you knew he would.

The days bleed together—shadows under his eyes, tremors in his hands. He tracks every scrap of evidence. He follows dead-end trails and cryptic breadcrumbs.

But every time he thinks he’s close—

Another message arrives.

Always handwritten. Always in your voice.

Almost there.

Not yet.

I miss you.

Ninety-one days.

One hundred and seven days.

His nightmares get worse. He wakes up gasping, convinced he hears your voice in the dark.

The team starts to worry—JJ, Emily, Hotch. They whisper behind closed doors, watching him like they’re waiting for him to break.

They don’t understand.

You’re still out there.

He knows it.

Day one hundred and thirty-four.

The last message arrives at dawn—slipped under his apartment door.

No envelope. No warning.

Just three words scrawled on a torn scrap of paper.

Come find me.

There’s an address underneath.

Spencer’s hands tremble as he memorizes the letters, his heart hammering in his chest.

You’re still alive.

You’ve been waiting for him to find you all along.

Spencer doesn’t hesitate.

The moment he reads the address, he’s moving—grabbing his gun, his badge, his car keys. He doesn’t stop to think. He doesn’t call the team.

This is between you and him.

The address is unfamiliar—a rundown motel on the outskirts of the city, tucked away from prying eyes. It’s the kind of place people go when they don’t want to be found.

Or when they can’t risk being found.

He grips the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white. The road stretches ahead, but his mind is already there—picturing you behind a locked door, waiting. Picturing the worst-case scenarios.

Are you hurt? Are you alone? Are you even safe?

The thought nearly makes him swerve off the road.

He presses harder on the gas.

The motel is nearly abandoned.

A neon “Vacancy” sign flickers, buzzing in the dim morning light. The parking lot is cracked and empty, save for a single car covered in dust.

Spencer pulls in, scanning the area.

Room 16.

The number is burned into his mind.

He moves quickly, quietly, stepping out of the car with his gun drawn. Every instinct screams at him to be cautious.

The world is too still.

The air is too heavy.

Something is wrong.

But you’re inside.

And nothing—nothing—is going to keep him from you.

Spencer reaches Room 16.

The door is closed. No sound from inside.

He presses his hand against the wood, his breath shaky.

“(Y/N)?”

Silence.

He knocks, once. Twice.

Then—

A creak.

The sound of movement.

His pulse spikes.

You’re there.

“Spencer?”

It’s barely a whisper. Hoarse. Fragile.

His heart nearly shatters.

“It’s me,” he says, voice breaking. “Open the door.”

A pause.

Then the sound of locks clicking open.

The door swings inward.

And there you are.

Spencer can’t breathe.

You’re standing in front of him, alive—alive—but you’re not the same.

Your eyes are hollow, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. Your lips are cracked. Your clothes are wrinkled, loose, like you haven’t eaten in days.

There’s a cut on your forehead. Bruises along your arms.

He clenches his fists so hard his nails dig into his palms.

Who did this to you?

Who took you?

Who hurt you?

His mind spins, rage boiling under his skin, but then—

You move.

A small, broken step toward him.

And just like that, the rage dissolves.

Because you’re here.

Because you’re real.

Because after one hundred and thirty-four days of hell, he can finally touch you.

Spencer doesn’t think—he just moves

He pulls you into his arms, holding you so tightly he’s afraid he might break you.

But you don’t break.

You cling to him just as desperately, burying your face in his shoulder, trembling.

And for the first time in months—

Spencer breathes.

You don’t speak right away.

You just exist—in his arms, in his space, breathing the same air.

Spencer doesn’t rush you.

He lets you lean against him, lets his fingers trace soothing patterns along your back, grounding you.

Then, finally—

“They took me.”

Your voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, but it’s enough to send ice through his veins.

Spencer pulls back just enough to look at you.

Your eyes shine with unshed tears. Your hands shake.

“Who?” His voice is sharp, controlled. “Who took you?”

You swallow hard. “I don’t know their names. I don’t—I don’t know why.”

His jaw clenches.

You shake your head, eyes darting around the room like the walls are closing in.

“They knew about you, Spence. They knew everything.”

The air leaves his lungs.

Everything?

“How?” he asks, his voice low.

You hesitate. “I think—I think they were watching us for months. Maybe longer.”

His blood runs cold.

Someone had been watching.

Someone had been planning this.

And he hadn’t noticed.

His stomach churns with guilt, with rage.

“Why did they let you go?” he asks.

Your breath hitches. “I don’t think they did.”

Spencer stiffens.

“I ran,” you say. “I got out, but—I don’t think I was supposed to.”

His grip tightens.

They’re still looking for you.

You’re not safe.

And if they find you—

A knock at the door makes both of you freeze.

Spencer reaches for his gun.

And outside, a voice speaks.

“Dr. Reid. We need to talk.”

Spencer recognizes the voice immediately.

FBI.

But something is wrong.

They shouldn’t know he’s here.

They shouldn’t have found you this fast.

He pulls you behind him instinctively, his mind working at lightning speed.

If they were real agents, why didn’t they call him first? Why show up like this?

Unless—

They aren’t here to help.

Unless—

They were part of it all along.

The knock comes again.

“We know you’re in there, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer’s heart pounds.

They’re here for you.

And he’s not going to let them take you.

Not again.

The knock at the door comes again, sharper this time.

“We know you’re in there, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer grips his gun tighter.

You’re still trembling behind him, your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, your breath uneven against his back.

Spencer tilts his head toward you, voice barely above a whisper. “We’re not opening that door.”

Your grip tightens. You nod.

Another knock.

“Dr. Reid, if you don’t open up, we’ll be forced to enter.”

Spencer swallows hard, calculating.

The only way out is through.

“Bathroom,” he murmurs to you. “Now.”

You hesitate, but when you see the look in his eyes—pure, unshakable determination—you obey.

Spencer waits until you’re tucked away before moving toward the door.

He presses his ear against it, listening.

Three distinct sets of footsteps outside.

Too heavy for standard-issue FBI boots.

No radio chatter.

No verbal confirmation codes.

This isn’t his team.

Whoever they are, they’re pretending.

And they think they’re smart enough to outplay him.

They have no idea who they’re dealing with.

The lock clicks.

They’re breaking in.

Spencer moves fast.

He positions himself in the narrow hallway, gun raised, breath steady.

The door swings open.

Three men. Suits. No badges.

Spencer doesn’t hesitate.

He fires.

The first shot hits the man in front—straight to the shoulder.

He drops with a shout.

The other two pull their weapons.

Spencer doesn’t give them a chance.

He ducks, moves fast, fires again.

The second man stumbles back, his gun skidding across the floor.

The third lunges.

Spencer blocks the hit, twisting the attacker’s arm until he hears a sharp pop. The man howls in pain, but Spencer doesn’t stop.

He slams the butt of his gun against the side of his head, knocking him out cold.

Then—

“Spence!”

Your voice

Spencer spins around just as the first man—the one he shot in the shoulder—lifts his gun again.

You act before Spencer can.

You grab the nearest object—a motel lamp—and smash it over the attacker’s head.

He crumples.

Spencer is already moving.

“We need to go.”

You don’t hesitate.

Together, you run.

Spencer doesn’t take you back to his apartment.

He doesn’t go to the BAU.

You’re not safe there.

Not yet.

Instead, he takes you to a safe house—a small, nondescript cabin in the middle of nowhere, secured through old FBI contacts he knows he can trust.

It’s quiet. Hidden. Safe.

For now.

The moment you step inside, the weight of everything finally crashes down on you.

Your knees buckle.

Spencer is there before you fall.

He catches you, his arms around you, his breath warm against your hair.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You’re okay.”

You’re not okay.

Neither of you are.

But right now, you don’t need words.

You just need each other.

And so, for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to break.

Spencer holds you through it all.

The next morning, Spencer finally calls the team.

Hotch answers on the first ring.

“Reid.”

Spencer exhales. “We have a problem.”

It takes an hour for the team to arrive.

JJ is the first one through the door.

The moment she sees you, she gasps, her eyes welling with tears.

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “You’re alive.”

Emily and Morgan aren’t far behind, their faces tight with worry.

Even Garcia—who never visits the field—bursts into the room, covering her mouth in shock.

Spencer stands protectively close to you, his fingers brushing yours, grounding you.

Hotch steps forward.

“Tell us everything.”

It takes hours to go through it all.

Everything you remember.

Everything Spencer uncovered.

Everything you don’t know.

The truth is worse than anyone expected.

The people who took you?

They weren’t just criminals.

They were insiders.

Corrupt law enforcement.

A deep-rooted network of powerful figures who had been watching, waiting, orchestrating your disappearance like a game of chess.

And Spencer had just exposed them.

Which meant they wouldn’t stop coming.

Not until every loose end was tied.

Not until you and Spencer were dead.

There’s only one way this ends.

The team launches a full investigation.

Garcia digs deep—dangerously deep—into places no one should be able to reach.

Emily and Morgan track down leads.

Hotch mobilizes trusted agents.

And Spencer—

Spencer stays by your side.

Because no matter what happens next, he’s not losing you again.

Not now.

Not ever.

The corrupt officials make one last desperate move—an ambush.

They come for you.

For Spencer.

But this time, the BAU is waiting.

Gunfire. Chaos. A final standoff in an abandoned warehouse.

And then—

It’s over.

The last man standing is handcuffed, forced to face the destruction he caused.

Justice is served.

You’re finally free.

It’s over.

You’re safe.

Spencer should feel relief.

But instead, he feels like he might collapse.

You sense it before he even says a word.

You take his hand, squeezing gently.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

He exhales shakily.

“I thought I lost you.”

You lift a hand to his cheek, brushing away the exhaustion in his eyes.

“I thought I lost you,” you admit.

Spencer swallows hard.

And then—

He kisses you.

Soft, desperate, full of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every shattered piece of his heart that only you can put back together.

You kiss him back, holding onto him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

And maybe he is.

Because no matter what happened—no matter what almost tore you apart—

You found your way back to each other.

And that’s all that matters.

The nightmares don’t go away overnight.

Neither do the scars.

But healing isn’t about forgetting.

It’s about moving forward.

One step at a time.

Spencer stays by your side through it all.

Through the restless nights.

Through the bad dreams.

Through the slow process of relearning what it means to live instead of just survive.

And one night—months later—when he slips a small, velvet box into your hands, his fingers trembling, his voice a whisper—

You don’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Because after everything—

After losing each other.

After finding your way back.

164 notes · View notes

fuctacles · 8 months ago

Note

hi!!! congrats on 500 followers!! you deserve them and so many more! i love your writing sm. i will take some more from crazy cat lady stevie 💛

thank you, thank you! 💚 It's a joy to write for y'all. Here's the next 500 words of CCLS(lmao):

Prev: 😺😺 Next: 😺😺😺😺

"Here." Steph pushes back the notepad after setting down a string of digits. Her handwriting is small and neat. It suits her. "Feed the little shits twice, today evening and tomorrow morning, water the plant once today. They should be fine alone, but stay with them to make sure they eat their food and, I don't know…" she waves her hand in the air. "Scratch them if they get really whiny or something. Call me if anything's wrong."

Eddie nods along at her instructions.

"Don't worry, I got this. I've befriended Jeff's hateful little Siamese in a day. I think cats like me," he assures her. "We'll be fine."

She puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

"Of course you will. I trust you."

This touch and her words are all he can think of while they talk for the ten minutes Steph has left. Mostly her and his uncle, because his brain is running wild while trying to soak in the information they share.

He finds out that Robin lives in Indianapolis with her girlfriend. Wayne isn't surprised by that information, but Steph gives Eddie a cursory glance. He gives his best to show how much he doesn't care she's friends with a lesbian. He wants to scream that he's bisexual but it doesn't seem like time and place for that.

He also learns that Dustin is around five years younger than her and married, and she seems to be both proud and jealous of that.

Eventually, she looks at her watch and makes a distressed noise, before hastily gulping down the rest of her coffee.

"I gotta go," she informs them, standing up. Eddie follows.

"I'll walk you off."

"You don't have to—"

But he ends up grabbing her duffel, putting his slippers on, and opening the door in front of her anyway.

"M'lady." He bows, earning himself an amused huff.

"Goodbye, Wayne!" she says, leaning into the kitchen.

"Have a safe trip!" Wayne offers back, and then they're off, walking down the stairs.

Steph grabs the duffel near the front door, basically prying it away from his grasp.

"Thanks again for stepping in. Wayne is lucky to have a family like you."

To have a family.

"No problem," he assures her. "I wouldn't just help anyone, though. You seem like a good person."

"Thanks." She smiles timidly. Then, she leans in, and brushes his cheek with her lips. "See you soon. Don't kill my cats."

"Uh-huh," he agrees eloquently. The heady smell of her perfume must have dazed him.

On her way out the door, she turns.

"Love your pants, by the way. Though I'm more of a Captain America fan." She disappears after that, giving him one last wave.

He's about to swoon. Gorgeous, queer-friendly, and likes superhero comics? He could fall in love.

But he's not going to swoon for a lady that's at least ten years older than him, and probably still single for a reason. And it goes the other way too.

#steddie #stevie harrington #transfem steve harrington #Mine #crazy cat lady stevie #stevierything #transfeminine steve harrington #I have bad news eddie youre already swooning #its a lost battle #wip wednesday #500 followers

267 notes · View notes

blasphemous-lies-and-deceit · 1 year ago

Note

67: tucking their hands beneath the other person’s shirt, just to watch them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin

With GerryMichael because as a fellow tall people I know Michael's hands are unbearably cold from lack of circulation but his face is easy to go red 🥰

Tall people with bad circulation 🤝 office workers working in cold offices

Michael wondered if Gertrude would let him help her kill Elias.

It was only a matter of time. He'd had his eyes wrenched open, no longer blind to reality. He knew who they were working for, and while he didn't necessarily like it, he knew Gertrude hated it. She was not quiet about her criticism, and while he was glad she wasn't keeping him in the dark anymore, it was still quite a thing to listen to his boss openly plot murder.

He didn't care if Elias was dead at her hands- really, the Head of the Institute was just as guilty as the others, and worse. What Michael did resent was the relentless busy work that he was being assigned, probably to keep them busy so they couldn't plot their boss's demise. The amount of incoming statements was so relentless, they nearly didn't have room to put them all. Gertrude was busy with her own plots, so she was no help, of course. And Elias's ever-so-helpful suggestion of "digitizing" the hand-written statements just meant more work for him.

Michael groaned as he flexed his fingers against the keyboard. He was a fast typer, but the statements were usually rambling, and the handwriting nearly illegible. The Eye helped a bit, but that left him with an awful headache at the end of the day, and exhausted beyond belief. He was even beginning to have dreams about the statements, which was incredibly annoying since he couldn't even have a break in his sleep.

The most current annoyance to him, however, were his fingers. He felt like he couldn't warm them up, they were like stiff icicles against the keys, and blowing on them or tucking them against his chest made no difference. Fingerless gloves might help, but he didn't have a pair on hand, and he'd been too tired to knit recently, so he couldn't whip up a pair either. It wasn't enough to slow him down, but it did make his mood worse, and he was more than ready for a break.

"Gerry," Michael sighed, leaning back limply in his chair to watch his boyfriend descend the stairs with a bag of takeout. "My love, the light of my life, the greatest joy, my absolute treasure-"

"That bad, huh?" Gerry grimaced, crossing the distance between them to drop a kiss on top of his head. Michael just groaned, long and whale-like, and spun his chair around so he could bury his face in Gerry's chest. "I'm sorry, love."

"It's awful," Michael moaned, slinging his arms around Gerry's waist. "It's like they don't realize someone's going to actually read what they've written. They don't even try to make it legible."

"Ugh." Gerry leaned over him to peer at the papers next to his computer. "Their handwriting is worse than mine."

"And it's so pointless! It's just busy work." Michael leaned back so he could see Gerry's face. "Next thing you know, that bastard'll have me recording them or something."

"I'm sure you'll do a fantastic job regardless," Gerry assured him, staring down at him with a terribly fond expression. He raised his hands to cup the back of his head, gently rubbing the tension away. "You're too damn good for this place."

"Flatterer," Michael rebutted, helplessly charmed. Gerry just smiled and bent down to kiss him, so soft but full of meaning. Michael kissed him back, feeling all of the tension drain right out of him, leaving him soothed and relaxed. It meant everything to him to have Gerry by his side, sympathetic and caring and exactly what he needed the most. As if Michael couldn't possibly be more in love with him.

And to show his appreciation, he rucked up the back of Gerry's shirt and plastered his hands to the small of his back.

Gerry yelped and jumped away, gaping at Michael incredulously as he fell into giggles. "What the hell?" he gasped, sounding aghast and offended. "Why are your fingers so cold?"

"Because its cold down here!" Michael pointed out. "And my jumper doesn't cover my hands." He wiggled his fingers to prove his point, and Gerry rolled his eyes, coming back to take his hands in his.

"Poor guy," he commiserated, rubbing his hands and bending to breathe warm air over them. "I have some fingerless gloves back ho- back at Pinhole, I'll run over and grab them for you."

"Thank you," Michael murmured, touched that Gerry would step foot back in that place for him. Over the past few months they had been removing Gerry's clothes and personal items and relocating them to his flat, slowly moving him in where he belonged. Michael couldn't help but feel a deep stir of pleasure at the thought, of getting Gerry away from that awful place for good. It's what he deserved.

Gerry knelt next to him, tucking his cold hands under his chin as he smiled at Michael, happy and content. "Can you take a break for lunch? Get out of this basement for a bit?"

"Of course." Without looking, Michael put his computer into sleep mode and guided Gerry back to his feet, pulling him in for a hug. This time, when he cold hands wandered under Gerry's shirt, he didn't pull away.

#gerrymichael #gerry keay #michael shelley #doorkeay #rebelwriting #thanks for the prompt!

71 notes · View notes

shade-e-e-es · 2 years ago

Note

this is TECHNICALLY an art request but i was looking thru ur art tag and noticed the different lengths of hair Ren had throughout them ^_^ do you have a hair length timeline or anything in mind, or do you just draw him how you feel at the time? i loveee hair headcanon stuff its so fun

I could kiss you tbh thank you for indulging me let me write out what this says cause my gay ass has horrible handwriting + I have notes on things

Weird girl

Teenager: dysphoria begins

S4 Post top/T start: nervous about dog hybrid status. Hat boy (hides his hair length/ears with a beanie)

S5: no longer shy/ got haircut for resistance (After a season with the hermits he doesn’t mind them knowing he’s not a human, Iskall and him gave each other haircuts)

S6: starting to actually care about his appearance (Doc gave him the shades in s5 to me sorry gri)

S7: oops nvm he’s fucked up mentally (Season 7 was a huge mental strain and he stopped cutting his hair)

S8: Hair got singed off a lot by the lava (a bit shorter than he usually likes it)

S9 (start): s8’s ending destroyed him. Had to basically be sent back to square 1 by X. Body was changed including hyper hair growth.

(Basically jumping into a giant ball of lighting destroyed the fake lungs he had to use to breath. X had to basically alter his core code to allow him to live. When he respawned he was basically a ball of hair and fur. This is where the dog legs/paws/furry arms begins)

S9 (current): hair got cut when he was degraded/dethroned. Unsure if he wants to grow it out again or cut it

(When impulse killed him in the final challenge, he beheaded him, including his hair. Dying is very weird to Ren now and it changed his body again, giving him his people arms back. He gets more furry and less furry and random intervals now.)

There’s my hairs for now, I have so many thoughts about Ren I love him so bad he’s so slay to me I’ll draw certain scenes in my head at some point mainly that last one also sorry for the physical sketch I couldn’t be bothered to digitalize the same face 9 times

#honey-daisies #congrats on your free art!! xd #Ren

54 notes · View notes

captain-dville · 2 months ago

Note

Dear Jonny. I'm not the best with feelings. None of us are, and unfortunately we lack in anomalies for that (Beyond the Toy Solider. Even then, there's only a 0.118282% chance it truly experiences emotions how a human brain would.)

However I am rather skilled with words so I am trying to use a median that won't end with me in tears.

I don't want you to hate me. And I'm sorry if I ever made you feel that way. I want to be around you, and I'm sorry if I gave off the impression that that's not something I wanted.

If you have truly forgiven me, I have rather recently finished downloading a book on body disposal techniques. And it reminded me off you. As much as I would truthfully love to spend time with you, I don't know if that's something I can bring myself to do out of shame.

Regardless, I find it nessecary to end this with I love you. Thank you for caring about me even when I caused you pain. Thank you for caring about me when I was shutting down. Thank you for everything. The book is outside your door. I couldn't slide it under with this note. I'm sorry. You can keep it if you'd like. I've archived it digitally so I don't need it back.

-Ivy.

*Jonny sits on the side of his bed, thinking. He'd found the note, with its perfect neat handwriting. And the book, sat waiting for him outside his door and wrapped in paper to keep it clean. He'd taken both back inside with him and cracked open another drink.*

*Now he rereads Ivy's words for what has to be the dozenth time, taking a sip of the beer in his hand and letting out a slow sigh.*

*He opens up his private comms with her and starts writing, not bothering with a greeting.*

I don't hate you. I'm not even mad. You were out of your damn head, and of anyone on this ship I'd be a hypocrite to judge you for flying off the handle and doing things you didn't mean.

Or even things you did mean.

It's alright if you meant it. I meant what I said too.

Truth is, Ives, I'm not good with words either. Stories, tall tales, I'm fucking great at those, but true words? That's different.

Noticed you avoiding me though. I figured you didn't want to see me. That all of it - maybe the fighting, maybe just seeing me all pathetic like that - killed those mushy feelings and you were done. If I was wrong about that... well, great.

Thanks for the book. If you feel up to it, we can test out the techniques sometime.

And if your sweater got damaged in the scuffle, or from the blood, you can drop it off. I'll fix it up.

( @originalarchivist )

#mechs rp #the mechanisms rp #the mechs rp #jonny asks #(ooc: hopefully the I love you comes across without him saying the words outright)#whiskey hearts (shippy rp)

3 notes · View notes

archival-cryptid · 2 years ago

Text

Laplace's Angel :)

[ID: A digitally drawn two panel comic of Renee Minkowski and Alana Maxwell from the podcast Wolf 359.

The first panel is a side view of Minkowski, with only her arm, shoulder and lower half of the face visible. Her arm is extended holding a gun, with her hand shown to be shaking. The second panel shows the front view of Maxwell staring down the barrel of the gun. She is tied up, and her head is tilted to the side with a smug expression on her face. She says "She won't. Trust me. Her hands are shaking.".

Minkowski is drawn as a light skinned woman with dark hair in a bob wearing a jumpsuit, and Alana as a light skinned woman with long curly hair tied back in a ponytail wearing a singlet. The room they are in is illuminated in red light.

Beneath the first panel is written "It doesn't take a killer to murder", and beneath the second is "It only takes a reason to kill" in white handwriting, with the word "kill" in red. There is a red blood splatter at the bottom of the drawing. End ID]

#wolf 359 #w359 #wolf 359 spoilers #wolf 359 fanart #alana maxwell #renee minkowski #commander minkowski #blood tw #guns tw #fanart #my art #described

30 notes · View notes

thefanficmonster · 10 months ago

Note

could you PLEASE do some Santi (from food theory) x reader fluff , I haven’t found many ficus of Santi and that man is FINE😩😩

Hello dearest! Your request has made me so happy! I absolutely ADORE Santi and I'd love nothing more than to write for him ❤ Also I beg you to send me any fics you've found of him I haven't been able to find any and it's killing me 😭

Enjoy the fluff hun and feel free to send in as many Santi requests as you'd like, I'm always excited to fulfill them 💌

Being married to Santi would include...

A constantly messy kitchen

And I mean constantly

But that mess always produces something, well, delicious at best and interesting at worst

Tell me what other time you'd be able to try homemade Prime cake

Yeah, that's what I thought

Waking up in the middle of the night/odd hours of the morning to a commotion in the kitchen

Clinking of pots, pans and utensils, opening and closing of cabinets

And you'll be damned if you don't go witness it first hand

It being Santi in his element, charged with a new recipe idea for Food Theory

You're the first person to taste test all his creations and although you've sworn to always be honest with your rankings it's hard to put your biases aside

You two started dating a month before his birthday and at the time you knew very little about him apart from his love for his culinary career

So, strapped on what to get him, you resorted with going with a safe option, something you knew would come in handy

That ended up being a notebook designed specifically to store recipes

Seven years later, he still has it, as well as every single one you've gotten him throughout the years after he managed to fill the previous from cover to cover with his rushed but still somehow tidy handwriting

He refuses to digitally input any recipe that comes to his mind, which is why one of your notebooks is constantly within arm's reach

When you two aren't swamped with work, you find upmost joy just spending time together

It can be the most insignificant things like literally laying on the couch together in silence

That is enough to make your day

But there are also those cute dates you still go on even after years of marriage

The spark never did nor will it ever die down

You two will forever be crazy for one another

You can see how much one loves their significant other based on how many exceptions they make and how many principles they break for them

Santi has always had a strict rule - when he's in the kitchen, elbow deep in the realization of a new recipe, he wants no one in the vicinity

Yeah, well, that rule doesn't apply for you

He's always more than happy to have you around

Even with years of experience under his belt, he doesn't always trust himself with his culinary endeavors

That's where you come in to reassure him

He does still have a hard time accepting help, but he's adapting

He knows he can count on you and you can count on him

That's what makes your marriage so strong

And your love for each other unmeasurable

#santi massa #food theory #food theory santi #santi food theory #santi x reader #santi massa x reader #food theory santi x reader #game theory fanfic #game theory #film theory #style theory #matpat

12 notes · View notes

rjalker · 9 months ago

Text

The other public domain characters I made while listening to the How To Train Your Dragon books since I can't pay attention to audio unless I'm doing something else, like drawing.

The image descriptions have finally been added two months later because I forgot this post existed as soon as I made it.

all of these character designs and art are public domain because I say so. They'll also be uploaded to the internet archive tomorrow and I'll add a link so you can download the HD versions there. Feel free to download these awhile if you want, though tumblr will kill some of the quality.

some of the colors might look weird because my phone really enjoys lying to me about what colors actually look like, especially purples and pinks for some reason??

anyways you'll also be able to download the lineart for these when I upload them all tomorrow so you can make your own :)

(they are all public domain, I only thought to add that to the image itself after already making some of them)

Cat people

[ID: Seven digital drawings using the same line art, showing an anthropomorphic lion with a short, spiky mane, with different fur colors and designs, against a grey background. The character is shown largest standing facing the front with arms and legs to the sides, then smaller showing the back, with a larger version of one eye in the top corner, and a close up of the front of a lower leg and paw on one side. The first design has black and blue fur, with a cyan mane, a cyan stripe down the spine, and on the tuft of fur at the end of the tail. The belly, most of the tail, and the lower limbs are medium blue, with the torso and face in black, with vertical black lines on the legs, and horizontal black stripes on the arms. The paw pads are cyan, as is the iris, which is surrounded by black sclera. The second design is light purple, with pale yellow stripes that radiate out from the belly. The hands, feet, and tuft on the tail are dark purple, with thin stripes on the ankles and wrists, with one colored in pale yellow. The eye has a gold iris. The rest of the designs have the same lineart, but now also say "public domain" in large white digital handwriting, with a smiley face. The third design is monochrome grey, with sections at each movable joint that looks like mechanical hosing to allow movement. There are joints on the fingers, wrist, elbow, shoulder, torso, waist, hips, knees, ankles, and all along the tail. The iris is gold. The fourth design is like a harlequin outfit, in pink, white, and orange, with an orange V shaped stripe for the belly, splitting half the body into a white torso, with pink paws and half the face pink, and the other half of the torso pink with white paws and that side of the face white. The mane and tail are white with thin orange stripes, and there are thick orange zig-zagging stripes at below the knee and above the elbow. The fifth design has a base color of white, with deep brown markings that form a hollow heart in the center of the chest, with curved lines radiating outward, connecting to a solid heart on the back. The hips have solid hearts on the sides, with more curved lines radiating away from them like a spider web. The face has the center brown, and more lines framing the eyes. The tail is mostly white, but with a large patch of brown towards the end, brown stripes, and a brown tuft of fur on the end. The eye is peachy orange. The sixth design is half black, with blue and light grey stripes, and half grey with black and green stripes, with the tail black with white stripes, and the tuft of fur on the end half blue and half green. One eye is blue with a black pupil, the other is green with a gold pupil. The seventh design is in shades of tan, warm brown, teal, orange, and rusty-red. The Face, hands, legs, tail, and belly are in brown, with a zig-zag diamond pattern for the belly, and blue spots on the face, outlining the eyes, and larger matching blue spots on the arms and legs. On the wrists and ankles are two thin red stripes, and on the shoulders and hips are a blue stripe followed by two orange stripes. The iris is red-pink. End ID.]

Dragons / giant winged fantasy cats.

[ID: Five simple digital drawings of dragons using the same lineart, posed at the end of jumping through the air with the front feet on the ground, the back legs behind it, and feathered wings slightly open. They each have rounded ears, a large nose, and a skinny tail. The first is red with black wings and black stripes down the spine, with tiny black spots, and red spots on the black wings. Above it is another version of the same dragon, sitting and looking to the side. The second is in different shades of blue,with a white belly, and some black stripes on its legs, and wavy squiggly stripes on the wings. Along its back are thin white stripes. The third design is pink, with purple speckles, and bright green and seafoam green feet, with a green face with a dark spot in the center. Above it as a reference is a simple fourlegged alien in the same colors, with a single large eye for a face. The fourth design is greyscale, with a light grey body with white wavy stripes, and darker wings in a gradient from black to dark grey with thin white feather-outlines separating eachcolor. The fifth design is a simpler version of the one before it, but with a red body and only a few of the white stripes. End ID.]

werewolves. including two based on our cats. no one else wanted to hold still enough to act as a reference before I finished the books lol. The last one I'd just started.

[ID: Six digital drawings of werewolves. The first design is a hasty scribble of a bipedal werewolf, standing in a pose like it has just stopped running and is looking back over its shoulder. It has mostly black fur, with a purple belly, chin, and on the inside of its ears. Its wrists, face, cheeks, and tailtip are white, with three white stripes on its torso like ribs. Its eyes are purple. The second image has the design from the first smaller and above a quadrupedal design for the same character, with the same colors and pattern, now on all fours, with a slightly more realistic animal shape, with fluffy fur. Each following design shows both forms, the simple bipedal, and the more detailed quadrupedal. The third design is labeled, "Eclipse", and is made to resemble a tuxedo cat, who is mostly black, except for a white belly, unevel white legs, with the white reaching higher on the hind legs, and white on the chin and under one eye, with yellow eyes. The fourth design is meant to match a grey tabby, with grey fur with darker grey spots, a tan belly, a light grey face, and a very dark stripe down the spine, forming stripes on the tail. It is labeled, "Kairiz". The fifth design has dark green fur, with black and grey stripes down the spine and on the legs, with a white belly, and bright yellow eyes. The last design is teal, with tan on the shoulders down to the knee, where it changes to darker tan, like wet sand. The eyes for this design are not colored in. End ID.]

#described images #Rjalker does art #public domain characters #public domain #public domain art #furry #werewolves #dragons #clowns #image description added

3 notes · View notes

leftistfeminista · 10 months ago

Text

FOR THE ATTENTION OF THE FOLLOWERS WHO ARE INTERESTED IN PHILOSOPHY

Prisoned writer Leyla Atabay sends us the philosophy writings she wrote in prison under the title "Bottomless Well of Philosophy" in chapters of her handwriting.

We are also trying to bring to you every precious, laugh or think-provoking episode that we transmit to the digital environment with the cooperation of Literature Garden.

You can read a new chapter that we received before the holiday from the link below.

also read previous episodes on www. You can reach edebiyatbahcesi.net from the search engine.

You can write a letter to Leyla Atabay and offer your opinion/criticism/contribution about her articles.

address; LEYLA ATABAY

TYPE L PRISON ALANYA - ANTALYA

"After these last words of Yayla, I closed my windows to the world to dive into the philosophical depths. First of all, I had to get rid of my mouse phobia. I asked for mercy from philosophy. The solution was there. Everything started and ended in the mind. I had to say "There is actually no spoon" and bend the spoon first, then say there is no mouse and kill the little mouse. I had to hold it by its tail and throw it. When I reached that level, I showed Yayla a real mouse that I held by its tail and said, "Do you recognize me? I am the woman you scared with that pink sponge!" I could say and throw it towards him.

I mobilized my mind to realize this very cliché dream of mine. Being, substance, appearance, subject-object, truth, time... could wait a bit. First, I had to ignore the existence of mice with a Berkeleyan approach. But even though I was a Berkeleyan, the mice were not. Even though I ignored them, they saw me. Even though I ignored them, they ignored themselves. When I closed my eyes they disappeared, when I opened them they were there again. Since Berkeley says "to exist is to be perceived", not only me but all the people on earth had to deny the existence of mice, which was harder than letting a camel jump over a ditch. Yes, they were there, even though they disappeared when we turned off our senses. The best thing was to unleash Schrödinger's cat on them! But what could a cat do if it wasn't known whether it existed or not, whether it was alive or dead! "

#political prisoners #turkey #philosophy #Berkeley #Görülmüştür

6 notes · View notes

mountmortar · 10 months ago

Text

i have these things i do because i'm bad at writing (like i'm good at typing. i'm good at english and grammar rules and spelling and whatnot. but actually writing with my hands.....i have chicken scratch handwriting and the speed at which i write does not help things) where i'll accidentally add the letter e at the end of words for literally no fucking reason (think like Ye Olde Medievale Times) or i'll combine the letters "e" and "a" into one letter and the stupid thing about it is i'll ERASE the mistake and go to rewrite it and i'll write THE SAME GODDAMN MISTAKE AGAIN. and this usually happens like 3 or four times in a row of me just instinctively writing shit down the wrong way and erasing and attempting to fix it and NOT FIXING IT before i FINALLY write it correctly. so i recently switched over to digital notetaking and god i still do it but it's so much easier having an undo button and a digital eraser that's only two taps of my finger against my stylus away instead of killing a pencil's eraser within the span of a week. i should've done this sooner

#i don't know WHY my hand just writes words like i was raised in the the middle ages. but it does. and my brain literally goes 'that's not #right!' and sends the command to my hand to fix it and my hand is like 'oh okay!' and erases it and writes down THE SAME GODDAMN THING #AND IT'S INFURIATING!!!!!!! WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM MAN

3 notes · View notes

drmikewatts · 7 months ago

Text

Weekly Review 20 September 2024

Some interesting links that I Tweeted about in the last week (I also post these on Mastodon, Threads, Newsmast, and Bluesky):

Do web browsers really need AI embedded in them? https://www.theregister.com/2024/09/10/web_browsers_ai_holdout_vivaldi/

An AI scientist that performs at the level of an early PhD student-a few good ideas, a lot of bad ones, and poor ethics: https://spectrum.ieee.org/ai-for-science-2

But will the government AI be able to put you on hold for three hours? https://www.stuff.co.nz/nz-news/350411368/government-launch-ai-chatbot-called-gov-gpt

What executives need to do to successfully implement AI in business: https://www.informationweek.com/machine-learning-ai/forrester-ceo-lessons-for-executives-to-implement-ai-successfully

Cloning handwriting using AI: https://arstechnica.com/information-technology/2024/09/my-dead-father-is-writing-me-notes-again/

Jobs in IT are going to be impacted by AI, especially entry-level helpdesk positions: https://www.computerworld.com/article/3507029/will-genai-kill-the-help-desk-and-other-it-jobs.html

The Digital Divide include access to AI technologies: https://thespinoff.co.nz/partner/11-09-2024/how-can-everyone-be-part-of-the-ai-revolution

Don't fall for the hard sell over AI: https://www.informationweek.com/machine-learning-ai/cios-resist-ai-hard-sell-as-adoption-tactics-shift

Remember folks, conspiracy theories are what stupid people talk about when they want to sound smart. So let an AI talk them out of it: https://spectrum.ieee.org/ai-conspiracy-theories

How AI can contribute to marketing: https://www.datasciencecentral.com/how-ai-is-transforming-marketing-strategies/

Oracle is building nuclear reactors to produce carbon-free electricity to power its data centres for AI computing: https://www.tomshardware.com/tech-industry/oracle-will-use-three-small-nuclear-reactors-to-power-new-1-gigawatt-ai-data-center

Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics were brilliant for their time, but they are flawed in that they assumed that an AI would have a physical presence. They are a good start, though: https://www.datanami.com/2024/09/11/the-three-laws-of-robotics-and-the-future/

A guide to the proper way to converse with an AI: https://www.theregister.com/2024/09/11/delvish_llm_language/

AI can help to improve sustainability of business operations, but AI themselves have an environmental cost: https://www.informationweek.com/sustainability/how-ai-impacts-sustainability-opportunities-and-risks

Some numbers around the adoption of AI: https://blocksandfiles.com/2024/09/11/weka-genai-report/

Biased data will result in biased AI models. And businesses have a lot of biases: https://www.informationweek.com/machine-learning-ai/how-bias-influences-outcomes

This new AI can at least count: https://arstechnica.com/information-technology/2024/09/openais-new-reasoning-ai-models-are-here-o1-preview-and-o1-mini/

A voluntary commitment to combat deepfake nudes isn't very helpful, regulation is needed: https://techcrunch.com/2024/09/12/white-house-extracts-voluntary-commitments-from-ai-vendors-to-combat-deepfake-nudes/

California continues to move towards regulation of AI, and tech companies continue to over-state the impact of it: https://www.theverge.com/2024/9/11/24226251/california-sb-1047-ai-industry-regulation-backlash

Using one AI to design molecules, and another to explain the outputs of the first: https://spectrum.ieee.org/organic-solar-cells

Of course people are using AI to produce election propaganda, they don't have any real facts to attack their opponents with: https://www.theverge.com/2024/9/12/24243021/springfield-ohio-haitians-ai-generated-misinformation-trump

Using AI to debunk conspiracy theories: https://www.popsci.com/technology/conspiracy-debunk-ai-bot/

European Union takes legal action against Google over the data it uses to train AI: https://www.computerworld.com/article/3518073/google-faces-eu-investigation-over-ai-data-compliance.html

A generative AI app for making music: https://dataconomy.com/2024/09/09/how-to-create-music-jamboss-ai-2024/

#artificial intelligence #ai

0 notes

unrepentantweirdo · 10 months ago

Note

Lol I want to ask all the asks but I'll limit myself to like. Three. Barely.

🥺🤡🛠️?

Hello! Lol it's okay, ask as many as you want. I'm on my computer so I can't do the emojis, but I will answer!

Puppy dog eyes (Is there a certain type of moment or common interaction between your characters that never fails to put you in your feels?): Anything heartfelt or involving deep emotion. One scene in particular is when Cassie is reunited with her brother Teddy. It's bittersweet and angst-filled, and I actually teared up writing the rough draft for it. If y'all don't kill me for the next chapter I post, you'll kill me for that one.

Clown (What's a line, scene, or exchange you've written that made you laugh?): Closest I've come is when Cassie asks Mac if he'll teach her how to modify her weapons, and he tells her that'll be extra salary. It's also a future moment, like the previous scene.

Tools (What tools/programs/apps do you use to write?): I alternate between Google Docs and LibreOffice for word processors (the former allowed me to share with others for beta reading, the latter is to have a hard copy saved to my computer). I also have a poor beat-up pocket dictionary that I have had since the first grade (2001) that sits by me when I write, and if the word isn't in there I'll use the Merriam-Webster app. I'm planning on upgrading my physical dictionary soon, I love the feel of actual paper over digital stuff. This also applies to writing; when I get stuck I handwrite things and it sometimes helps me get around the block.

Bonus emoji time!

Music notes (Do you listen to music while you write? What song have you been playing on loop lately?): Absolutely, it's probably the only thing that helps me get stuff written lol. I listen to pretty much every genre, I don't have favorites. If it tickles the brain in a good way, it gets added to a playlist. The song I've currently been playing on loop is a mashup of After Dark by Mr. Kitty and Sweater Weather by The Neighborhood.

youtube

Another one that usually gets put on loop is Sunflower by Post Malone ft. Swae Lee.

youtube

Thank you for asking me questions! I hope you're having a good day.

#fanfiction #writing #ask me stuff #weirdo speaks

1 note · View note

queensparklekitten · 10 months ago

Text

When I was a lot younger, like "elementary schooler playing pocket edition back when enchanted gapples were craftable" younger, I was all the way on the "this is a video game" end of the scale. I would draw Minecraft people and mobs in an entirely square manner with not a single curve or non-right angle anywhere. I developed a third handwriting that I haven't used in ages that was mostly square letters with only a few diagonals to distinguish some letters (R, Q, etc.) that I used exclusively for drawing Minecraft-based comics. Crafting worked in-universe the same way it works on a meta level. Hackers were a thing.

I literally went to the level of having characters not just jump between minecraft worlds but leave the gaming system they were in via heading to the back of it and traveling through the power cord plugging it into the wall to fast-travel into other computers and ps4s and whatnot via power lines so they could access minecraft worlds that existed in a device other than the one they originated from.

Also, at one point when I was like 9 I imagined up a story where me and my brother get trapped in my Minecraft world and I like. Had us continue looking just like people in the real world even though everything else was made of squares. Just two realistic looking kids surrounded by blocks everywhere. And at one point this involved going to a multiplayer server and using the nearby water as a mirror to see cubic reflections, which was how we appeared to everyone else on the server. Interesting in hindsight that I did that, usually Minecraft isekai stories turn the person into squares.

And nowadays, it's like I've 180'd the way I treat Minecraft? I pretty much never make it a digital world now. All my Minecraft fanart is curves and the same detail brushes that I use when drawing other settings. The animals and weapons look like real-world ones. There's divergence from game models (such as bookshelves with more than just books or endermen with water scars and visible pearls) that was never there before. The only remaining element of the old blocky artstyle I used to use is occasional usage of Minecraft font in text and that's mostly just because it's really hard to choose a font for things and this is easier.

I'm cataloguing and coming up with in-universe explanations for game mechanics, something which I rarely ever gave any thought to back then. Despawning is dying of natural causes. An inventory is a pocket dimension. Literally everything relating to the headcanons I formed on magma cube biology after froglights were added.

And I almost never use the word server or talk about updates or the Devs. I have never done Minecraft lore that includes a concept of code. Players with elevated power aren't called admins anymore and griefers aren't banned, they're exiled or perma-killed.

My Minecraft worldbuilding does not take place in a video game, full stop.

That said, sometimes traces of this do still remain. For one, I still refer to players as players half the time, but usually I try to come up with an in-universe reason, and I do give them other names the other half of the time. At one point in one Minecraft-based story I did, the player mentions that the world sings to her (an idea I got from another post) and the pov villager brings up that she sometimes hums along to it, implying the game music exists in-universe, something I never did back in the day. Also, I don't treat newer features as being new in-universe, that biome they added in 1.18 has always existed, but I do have players and only players remember a time before wardens and cherry trees existed, have veteran ones be distinguishable by how they call badlands mesa and dye their beds red, and I don't really elaborate on -or even quite know- what's going on with that.

There's also the time I had a player get really drunk and start rambling about being an avatar for an extradimensional being that created this body in order to project their consciousness into this world, about how this whole world is a game they're playing, and the existence of mojang. When said player woke up the next morning with no recollection of this, they went "what the fuck kinda cosmic horror insanity did I come up with last night".

Despite that being the most explicitly meta I'd gotten in years, at no point in that scene did I ever use video game language beyond calling it a game one time.

I've been scrolling through minecraft worldbuilding and lore posts and it's got me thinking about like... the sort of scale a lot of it exists on in terms of treating it as a digital world in-universe?

Like. You've got people who approach it as closer to a fantasy world, whose lore is full of in-world explanations for game mechanics, everyone is flesh and blood unless they're like a ghost or something, the world existed long before the player(s), and there's little to no video game terminology because that's not relevant here. For all intents and purposes, this story does not take place in a computer.

And then you've got people who use terms like code, server, admin, etc. but come up with their own definitions for them. Or when people make up a pantheon and call them the Devs, with that just being basically a synonym for "the gods" and leave it ambiguous as to whether these gods are actually real. And there's still in-world reasons for things but they'll at times involve, say, whatever mysterious world-forming element is referred to as code, just as often as they'll be indistinguishable from something you'd find in the above take on Minecraft.

And on the other end of the spectrum there's things like using code in worldbuilding without making up a fantasy definition, or outright using the term NPC, or players being able to see their health bar, or that fic I read once where the characters downright take off (and wash) their minecraft skins to reveal that everyone is some kinda humanoid-shaped featureless amalgamation of code or something underneath their appearance

like. the difference between referring to updates as such in-universe and using the version names for them (ex. minecraft people casually talking about how a world was created in 1.17), versus the "world is slowly healing" theories that generally involve it doing this naturally (instead of the Devs being involved), versus "updates aren't happening in-universe the bogged have always been here"

fanart that sticks to a blocky artstyle, fanart that's basically "what might this look like in real life", cube people with round elements in their designs

idk it's just. interesting to think about? the different ways people approach minecraft worldbuilding and how much meta stuff they incorporate into their lore. I've run the gamut of these over the years and i could do a whole separate post about how the area my creations tend to fall on this scale has evolved over the years and also observations i've made in regards to this scale and how other things that vary in minecraft fanworks tend to intersect with it

13 notes · View notes