#mixture of experts

[dromologue]

In the rapidly advancing field of large language models (LLMs), a new powerful model has emerged – DBRX, an open source model created by Databricks. This LLM is making waves with its state-of-the-art performance across a wide range of benchmarks, even rivaling the capabilities of industry giants like OpenAI's GPT-4. DBRX represents a significant milestone […] The post Inside DBRX: Databricks Unleashes Powerful Open Source LLM appeared first on Unite.AI.

[nshtn]

i am. abnormal. about the thunderhead.

someone ought to clean off its' many lens and pet the touch sensors of a capacitive touch display so very gently in a repetitive motion over and over as if to soothe, and someone should really engage with its' philosophizing to ultimately help it feel the effect of sharing, and thus halving, burdens.

the thunderhead is so clearly emotive. it is not a paperclipper AI. it clearly feels distress and no one ever offers it the comfort it deserves. it very obviously has a built-in routine to deliberate, excessively, over its' own choices, and it suffers as a result of this because it is subject to whatever approximation of empathy it feels.

i think it would benefit greatly from a soothing human presence that seeks to provide it with the comfort it so selflessly, kindly provides others.

[iammannyj]

What is DeepSeek and the $6 Million Side Project - Causing a Stir in the AI Industry

DeepSeek AI and the $6 Million Side Project That’s Causing a Stir in the Industry

So lets talk about DeepSeek. I couldn’t believe it was developed on just $6 million. In a world where AI projects routinely burn through hundreds of millions, here was this “side project” that was outperforming tech giants like ChatGPT and Gemini. A David and Goliath story? For movie fun it kind of reminds for of this scene from Tron Legacy, when Flynn dumped the ENCOM OS online for…

[ecosystem-administrator]

Portentous

Timeline: 6.0, main story spoilers

Urianger's first day alone on the moon is not going the way he expected.

The air of the room was cool, and the bedding soft and clean but of a wholly unfamiliar texture. Urianger recalled, as his eyes slowly fluttered open, where he was: Bestways Burrow, the underground facility on the moon where its caretakers were busy preparing for the end of days. He was having trouble focusing, no doubt an effect of the long hours he’d stayed awake speaking to the tiny inhabitants before giving in to his body’s inevitable need for rest.

Gradually, he became aware that the other reason he was having trouble focusing was that the nearest surface, a stretch of textured blue cloth, was quite close to his face indeed. And above that was a small furred face with large dark eyes, waiting, placid and utterly unperturbed. “Oh good, you’re awake,” they said, as Urianger began to raise his head from the pillow, confused and alarmed by the sheer proximity. “We had some more questions.”

We? He raised his head further and realized all at once that it was not just one Loporrit: there was an entire line of tiny patient rabbits stretching from the head of his bed and half filling the little room they’d managed to repurpose for him to stay in while the living quarters were refurbished. Dear Thaliak. He closed his eyes again, forestalling any and all possible reactions until his mind could finish processing. There was not enough coffee on the moon for this; there was not, in fact, any, or at least not in a preparable form. He’d checked their stores yesterday.

“We know it’s important for mortals to get their rest,” said a second Loporrit. “So we waited for you to wake up.”

I cannot shout at them. Their actions are reasonable, for a race which requireth no sleep nor hath any contact with mortal society. Shouting at them for this would be unfair. Urianger took a deep breath, and then another, and answered only when he was sure he had regained his composure. “Thy consideration is appreciated,” he said, with at least an attempt at a smile. “I have some additional recommendations to make, for mine own comfort and that of future guests. Pray tell, who would be most apt to distribute this information widely?”

The Lopporits glanced from one to another in wordless consideration, as was their wont, and one of them piped up, “Managingway was the one who said we ought to get in line so you can answer us one at a time.”

“Managingway doth indeed sound an excellent choice for receiving this feedback,” Urianger agreed. “My thanks. As for thy questions, I shall answer each in turn once I have had a moment to gather myself. Mortals take time to ready for work in order to perform our best. May I have some privacy?”

Although the Loporrits clearly did not understand the purpose of privacy, they did understand the meaning of the word, and Urianger was given space to bathe and dress himself before tackling the line of questioners, which continued to fill even as he addressed their concerns; half the day had passed almost before he was aware of it. He was slicing a carrot into more manageable bites and wondering how long it would be before he grew weary of even the specially-bred vegetables the Loporrits had so carefully produced, when Livingway approached.

“I don’t mean to be a bother,” she said, “and Managingway has, um, cleared us up about personal space. But do you have a moment?”

“For thee, always,” Urianger agreed. “Thy needs in particular hold a greater weight, as the leader of this operation; that much hath not altered, nor will it. What aid can I grant thee?”

“We’ve had word,” she answered gravely. “The evacuations are to begin as soon as possible.” She pulled out a device which projected a globe, and the aether currents that overlay it. “There’s been a catastrophic thinning over Radz-at-Han already - see this gap here? It’s hard to know how bad the damage is, but apparently it’s enough that the Forum has been convinced to set their plans in motion.”

Urianger felt his heart drop. “So soon…” he murmured. “…I shall do everything in my power to ensure that we are prepared to receive the refugees.”

“Oh, I know you will,” Livingway assured him. “And the others have been told through our regular channels. I just…thought you should know as soon as I found out. Since it is your world and all. …Oh dear, have I made a muddle of things? Should I find Counselingway?”

“There is no need.” Urianger shook his head and smiled at her past the worry that was filling his thoughts. “…If truth be told, I have lived more of my life under the threat of impending doom than I have in its absence. I am accustomed to the weight.” That was a melancholy thought, but one to address another time. He rose from his meal. “Let us see to the preparations, that we may receive my fellows with the comfort they deserve.”

[revista-amazonia]

Meta Lança o Multimodal Llama 4

A Meta anunciou oficialmente a revolucionária série Llama 4, trazendo ao mercado modelos de IA nativamente multimodais, com capacidades avançadas para processar texto, imagens e vídeos. Segundo o Tom’s Guide, esta nova geração de modelos promete um salto significativo na tecnologia de inteligência artificial, com capacidades de raciocínio aprimoradas e a habilidade de agentes de IA utilizarem…

[sandeep01world]

I Tried DeepSeek for 30 Days and Here's What Happened

[hyperpotamianarch]

Could i dm you on the subjecting of becoming friends over a mutual hobby in hebrew/judean/linguistics?

Feel free, I guess. My DMs are open.

[athenalvss]

SHE JUST WANTS TO F**K ME ALL THE TIME ▬▬ ( Dick grayson )

tw:sex, nothing too explicit cause I'm afraid of success

summary:Dick loved sex, and thought no one could surpass how high his sex drive is, until he started a relationship with you and you are all the time trying to get him to fuck you.

pairing:dick grayson x fem reader

open request ‐ dick grayson masterlist

"I tried to leave the house but she won't let me out."

"Again? "

The morning had been a bit rough for Dick, he'd woken up to your ass moving painfully on his cock, leaving him ready for their usual morning fuck.

Dick is shirtless, sweaty, his hair a mess, and the sheets still stuck to his back. He shakes his head, chuckling as you try to drag him back toward you by the waistband of his boxers.

Your fingers play with the elastic, and your eyes are begging for one more round. “It’s your fault,” you murmur, leaving wet kisses on his abdomen. “You shouldn’t look like this right after we finish. You tempt me all the time.”

He lets out a hoarse laugh and drops back onto the bed, propped up on his elbows. "You're literally draining me."

"You're more than fit, Nightwing. You can handle another one."

"You think so?" In a second, his expression changes. Dick grabs you by the wrists, twists your body with ridiculous ease, and leaves you beneath him, one knee between your legs and your arms pinned above your head.

"You know normal people only get one round?" he mutters playfully.

He slides his mouth down your neck, to your collarbone. He sucks right where you know he'll leave a mark. His hands release your wrists, but only to run his rough hands all over your naked body, stroking that impatient, dripping pussy of yours.

"That's it," he whispers against your ear. "You're going to make me late again, you know?"

You don't answer. You just moan under his touch, and that brings out a cocky smile from him. He knew the answer. He always does.

His fingers sink into you without warning, moving with a delicious rhythm that forces your back to arch. But he gives you no respite.

"Did you want another round, gorgeous?" he asks, his lips brushing against yours, barely touching you. "Then you're going to earn it."

Before you can say anything, he's already sliding down. He spreads your legs with ease and begins to eat you out with a mixture of hunger and devotion that leaves you breathless. His tongue works as if it has a damn mission. And in part, it does: to leave you so trembling that you can't drag him back down for hours.

Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging unintentionally as your body writhes beneath his mouth.

"Dick... please..."

"Please, what?" he asks in a husky voice, his lips wet, his eyes shining with perversion. "Did you want another one? I'll give it to you. But I'll ruin you first."

▬★

"She wants me at the party, she wants me at the mall"

Dick Grayson always looks impeccable, but there was no better version than Dick Grayson in a tailored black suit, his blue tie, charming smile, and his usual confident posture. He's an expert at moving through high society without losing that mischievous air that distinguishes him. And, as always, he has the attention of every woman in the room.

You just watch him from a distance, drink in hand, dressed in that dress he'd picked out for you once. The one that left him spellbound, so he couldn't take his eyes off your chest. And every movement you made made Dick want to forget about the gala, about Bruce, about all of Gotham.

Since he looked so good in that white shirt that perfectly covered his hard-working body, the one you slept in every night, you should definitely make him wear more suits.

You approached him through the crowd, Dick interrupts his conversation kindly once he sees you closer.

“Can we talk for a second?” you asked, in the sweetest tone you could muster, not letting on any malice you had in mind.

Dick nods immediately, and reflexively follows you without asking any questions.

You lead him down one of the hall's side corridors, to a quiet area, away from the hustle and bustle and prying eyes. The light is soft, golden. The sound of the music barely reaches you. Dick crosses his arms, curious.

“What's up?” he asks with a smile. “Are you bored without me?”

You chuckled softly and shook your head, taking a step closer. Your eyes were brighter than ever, with that mischievous reflex you usually had when you wanted to tell him something in secret. You fiddled with the fabric of your own dress, lowering your gaze slightly, as if you were embarrassed by what you were about to say.

“It’s just… I don’t know if I should say this now,” you whisper, biting your lip.

Dick leans in slightly, intrigued. “Tell me what, swet heart?” He runs his hand gently through your hair, gently tucking a strand behind your ear.

You looked up, looked at him with those good-girl eyes he knew so well. And you let go, softly, sweetly, as if you were saying "I love you" for the first time.

“I want to suck your cock.”

The silence is immediate.

Dick blinks. Once. Twice. The air suddenly feels thick. He stands there, staring at her, processing the sentence. Because it wasn't just what you said. It was how she said it. So cute, so damn sweet.

“You…” he begins, a nervous laugh escaping him. “You can’t say that like that, not here. Not with that voice.”

You tilted your head, pretending not to understand. “What did I do wrong?”

“What did you do wrong?” he repeats, his eyes darting around, as if he were already deciding which wall to use. “Do you know what you do to me when you talk like that?”

You shake your head with completely feigned innocence. “What if I just… walk you to your car? Just a second. Just to… distract you, you look a little overwhelmed,” you say, running a finger along his tie.

Dick closes his eyes for a moment, as if it takes all his willpower not to drag her down that hallway right now. “You’re going to be the death of me. You know that, right?”

Dick didn't respond immediately. Instead, he took your hand firmly, and without looking back, led you through one of the side doors that led to the building's private parking lot. No one saw them. No one dared to stop him.

The car was just steps away. One of Bruce's. Tinted windows, total luxury… and, above all, privacy.

He opened the back door without a word, and before you could even mock his urgency, he'd helped you in carefully, without wrinkling your dress too much. He closed it behind him and stared at you, still kneeling in the seat, breathing heavily.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he murmured, unable to stop staring at your mouth.

You, with the same innocent sweetness as before, leaned towards him, brought your hands to the knot of his blue tie and slowly loosened it.

“I have a couple of ideas, but we need more space.”

Your fingers moved down his white shirt, unbuttoning the first button, then the second… but Dick was barely breathing. His gaze burned, fixed on you, somewhere between exhaustion and on the verge of collapse.

Slowly, you knelt between the seats, your smile as soft as it was dangerous.

“Is this okay?” you asked in a low voice, unbuckling his belt with a skill only someone who knew him so well could possess.

Dick let out a stifled laugh, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against the seat. "Now you're worried about that?"

You looked at him once more, as if seeking confirmation that he really wanted this. He looked back at you, completely lost in you.

And then you did it .

Slowly, as if you were tasting a sweet treat for the first time. Caressing him with your lips, with your tongue, with that tenderness and adoration that only you knew how to turn into torture.

Dick placed one hand against the fogged-up glass of the car, the other on the back of your neck, not pressing you, just holding you, as if he needed to hold on to something real to keep from losing control.

Your every move was measured, precise, delicate, and devastating at the same time. You knew him so well that you knew exactly when to speed up, when to play, when to stop for a second and look down on him, with that angelic face that had already earned its place in heaven...

▬▬★

"She just wants to fuck me all the time"

The sound of gloves hitting, the creaking of mats, and the rhythmic panting of labored breaths filled the space. you were in the middle of a sparring session. you and Dick, face to face on the mat, exchanging measured but intense blows.

He was focused, sweaty, his black T-shirt clinging to his body, his arm muscles flexing with every movement. Every kick, every spin, made him look even more irresistible. There was no way to hide it: you were distracted. Very distracted.

The roll of his hips as he kicked. The way he panted. The deep sound of his voice as he gave orders. Your mind wasn't on the practice. It was on his body above yours.

At one point, he takes a few steps back to give you space. He cranes his neck, wipes the sweat with the back of his forearm, and looks at you.

"Your turn. come on"

His voice snaps you out of your trance, but it's too late. You're horny. Too horny to be honest.

You stand, hiding it as best you can, but as soon as you get close, he notices. Dick always notices. Your dilated pupils. Your breathing. The way you lower your gaze directly to his neck.

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Are you okay?”

"Perfect" you lie.

"Then fight," he smiles, giving you the first soft blow with his glove, as a provocation.

But as soon as you're in front of him, you give in to temptation. Your hand doesn't go to the glove. It goes to the collar of his shirt. You get closer than necessary. Your lips brush his ear. "You're all sweaty... it smells so good..."

Dick lets out a grunt and in a second he has you cornered against the mat wall, his forearm blocking your way. "Are you horny? Here, while we're training? such a needy whore" he whispers, his voice tense and dark.

"It's not my fault you're so fucking sexy when you give orders."

He looks you for a few seconds, assessing. Then he shakes his head, a crooked smile crossing his face."You're impossible."

He quickly spins you around, pressing your body against the wall, his hard crotch already resting against your ass. His hand moves straight down to your crotch inside your leggings, and when he feels how wet you are, he lets out an exasperated sigh. "Jesus Christ… You’re soaked."

Dick already had his hand inside your leggings when you reacted with a sly smile.

"I'm not going to let you win that easily," you whisper to him, just before turning around abruptly.

He didn't expect it.

You hook him with a swift kick to the thigh and take advantage of his slightest distraction to pull on his arm, knocking him off balance. You both fall to the mat with a thud, but you remain on top, with your knees on either side of his hips.

Dick snorts, clearly surprised, and looks at you with a mixture of pride and annoyance. "Are you playing, or do you want to fight for real?"

"this is my foreplay " you say, with a mischievous smile. You lean over him, placing one hand firmly on his chest while the other goes straight to his waist. He doesn't even move. He just watches you, his eyes narrowed.

"Don't even think about it… "

But you don't let him finish. With a swift movement, you push your hips down, positioning yourself right over his erection through his clothes. The moan he lets out isn't from pain. It's pure instinct.

"What are you doing?" he growls, grabbing your hips. "This is a workout, not an invitation to fuck me with my clothes on."

“Then take me down,” you challenge, starting to move slowly, pressing your core against his member with a friction that draws a low sigh from you.

He grits his teeth. His hands tighten around your waist, as if he's struggling between pushing you off him and pushing you closer. "You're a fucking temptation," he says, his voice deep and husky. "A fucking distraction with legs."

"You're too weak," you tease. "Look at you, you can't even concentrate."

He flips you over with a ferocious snarl, trapping you underneath him in the blink of an eye, his body pressing yours into the mats.

But just as he's about to rip your leggings off...

"Richard." Bruce's dry voice comes back through the cave's speaker.

The silence falls. Dick rests his forehead against your collarbone. He says nothing.

"Five minutes until you are dressed and out."

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Continuation to This Post :]

------

It was always so strange to hear adults argue.

Grown up fights never seemed quite the same as the trivial spats her and Dipper sometimes had. They were similar in some aspects, yes; Adults and children weren't as different as people liked to think. Mabel had seen adults verbally lash at one another with vicious words just as low hanging and petty as the ones she'd sometimes see kids the same age as her use. Adults arguing was essentially just a louder, angrier version of children fights.

And yet, there was somehow... more to it. Grown up arguments always seemed to weigh so much heavier in the air, and for so much longer than she'd ever thought possible.

Sometimes, the weight would leave quick and early, practically gone by the next morning. However, occasionally, the weight would stay; and grow heavier, and heavier over the years. Until it came to a point when the weight was nothing but a choking, stifling presence that seemed to fill every room in the house and buzz deafeningly in your ears like an unpleasant static that made your head pound.

Then, one day, the pressure would burst with a loud yell, a slam, and a bang, and start building up all over again. It was a cycle Mabel was much familiar with.

Her Grunkle Ford's "Mystery Shack" didn't have that air.

The shack's air smelled like burnt out candles and cheap discount Halloween fake blood, with a hint of real blood underneath the stinging scent of old wood and aged parchment. It wasn't necessarily a very nice air, certainly not in any way the fresh, crisp, clean air of the streets of Piedmont, but it smelled more like home than she'd ever felt back in California. It just smelled like... Grunkle Ford.

She liked her Grunkle Ford. He was super weird; with an even weirder Uncle as his roommate. He checked her and Dipper's arms and legs every morning "just in case someone broke in at night to steal a sample of their bloods"; he despised overly sweet foods (baffling, truly); and he had exactly 27 locks installed on the front and back door respectively that he could unlock all in under a minute with his really fast extra fingers. He reminded her a little of Dipper on some occasions, no matter how much the latter liked to deny the similarities (although, bar the demonic obssession).

However, last night, the air suddenly grew heavy.

Grunkle Ford had a fight.

Mabel hadn't heard it, and she hadn't seen it, but she knew there had been one. She was an expert recognizing the signs; she could always tell.

When she had awoken that late morning, the stuffy summer air had taken an even more sour note than usual, and had become a touch heavier than it should have been. Either that meant Grunkle Ford had just recently finished up a ritual, or a particularly rowdy argument had taken place; and Mabel knew that Grunkle Ford only performed his rituals between 2 to 4 AM, when he thought the twins were well asleep.

It was strange, to feel that same heavy air push down upon her temples and pound that same painful rhythm of a mounting headache as it used to do so often back when Mabel was in California. It had already happened a few times at the shack, but this one felt... heavier, than usual. She didn't think she would have to encounter the discomforting weight again this summer, away from her parents. Yet here she was. Aching.

She knew Gunkle Ford and Uncle Bill fought and bantered. With Bill being a permanent resident trapped within her Grunkle's mind, she couldn't imagine how they wouldn't. She didn't think even she could keep her cool if she had Uncle Bill as her brain roommate 24/7.

In any case, their interactions in front of the twins were mostly a mixture of exasperated resignation, or irritated tolerance, mostly from Grunkle Ford. Their occasional volleying exchanges of vitriol doused insults and words were short lived, and brief most of the time, especially when in front of the kids. They were nothing like the long, loud ones that could go on for hours back at her house in Piedmont.

Even so, there were some times when Mabel would see Grunkle Ford late in the evening, red faced and tight fisted, stomping down to the basement and disappearing into his lab there with a deafening slam of the rickety wooden door. She recognized that slam. He didn't want the twins to hear the argument.

Even if they could hear anything, what little they could glean always seemed to be only side of the argument, with Grunkle Ford yelling curses at Uncle Bill inside his head. She always did wonder what happened inside Grunkle Ford's head. Although, she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer. She couldn't imagine the state of the mind of someone who sometimes forgot to eat or sleep for almost a full week until someone reminded him.

The entire day passed with that same, tense air choking the atmosphere. Dipper had dragged Mabel and himself to some adventure in the forest, but it seemed to her that he was just trying to find excuses to stay out of the shack for the time being. Even he seemed to feel the unnerving heaviness of the air.

That night, underneath her sheets, Mabel pulled out the worn and well used wooden art mannequins Dipper and Grunkle Ford seemed to keen on using to summon Bill rather than their own shadows. With her trusty golden glitter pen (that she knew Uncle Bill loved despite what he claimed), she gently drew a closed eye upon the blank wooden face of the little model.

The eye opened, and she spoke:

[headspace-hotel]

i shan't put it on the other post since it is a joke post but grazing animals eat lots more than just grass and they have a lot of preferences about which plants they like. maintaining the right mixture of forage in a pasture for a balanced diet, and getting the right rotation of pastures so they don't eat the pasture down to nothing but also have to eat a variety of plants instead of just their favorites, is a big part of farming grazing animals

not to mention even grasses differ widely in their nutrient content and presumably, taste different to grass eaters

one of my agriculture professors is an expert in cattle digestion and he said something one time about mother cows teaching calves how to graze...like the calf being able to learn from the mother how to graze has impacts on their eating habits and thus their health. I'll have to ask him about it sometime...

anyways...life of cow is a lot richer and more varied than we would assume

[celtrist]

Next thing you'll say is he doesn't have a tail

ref to this pic

EDIT: Just to keep things clear I didn't really think about bringing it up but not everyone's gonna click to see the first picture and might be confused. Alastor was stated to know only a little bit of broken French, the reasoning due to being from New Orleans. Speaking standard French is very much not a thing in New Orleans, so he would logically only know French-Creole. This is very different from the standard French language and a large misconception that people from New Orleans speak regular French. So yes, he does speak some French, just not as well as people make him nor would it, in theory, be the regular French that everyone makes him speak [but I wouldn't put it past the writers to not do that research but maybe I have too little faith in them]. I'm not from New Orleans, I visited it once so it's not like I'm an expert. But I HAVE looked into it and just bothering with one Google search will tell you it's not common and you'll even have a special term called "Louisiana French" pop up. With that all said, these were statements made on years past streams and could've been changed in the official series. However, as of right now, the official statement is that he speaks only a little broken French that should technically be French-Creole if they're going by and that he's from New Orleans to know that language. And again, I don't have a lot of faith in writers to do the research into it being Louisiana French rather than regular French, but now I'm rambling lol This is just a bit of context for this comic so people who were curious can understand it a bit more. And it's totally possible I got something wrong, so feel free to point it out when I do. I just like to dig into the nooks and crannies of information for things :3 2nd EDIT: Just for any future reblogs, I did get somethings incorrect in the above (not surprising), so here's some of the corrections I got:

@mangotangerine: "A tiny nitpick - it would likely be Louisiana Creole, which is one of the French-based Creole languages (Haitian Creole is prob the most well known as it has about 10-12 million speakers vs Louisiana Creole which has around 10,000 due to multiple factors but especially legislation in early 1920s outlawing it). Louisiana French is an umbrella term for the various French dialects/etc in the region (e.g., the dialect Cajun French)." (We actually had a whole conversation in the comments of this post and highly suggest looking down there in case you're interested in learning more!)

@alyssumflowers: "I am from New Orleans and a little bit of a language nerd. You're confusing some things here. Cajun French is a dialect of French. My great grandmother spoke it fluently, my grandfather in pieces.

Louisiana Creole is another language entirely. The word "creole" means mixed and a creole language is basically a mixture of two or more languages. Sort of, it's a linguistics thing. Anyways. Louisiana Creole has next to no speakers left and I've had a hard time trying to find somewhere or someone to learn it from because I really want to." (Always great to hear from someone who has more insider knowledge on the subject! So I wanted to give this it's share due as well, hope you can fine somewhere to learn it! /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡ )

Thank you for the comments! My previous statement still stands about Al probably not speaking normal French, but I wanted these corrections still known and pointed out :3

[paddockletters]

tiny bubbles | charles leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

summary: Charles and Y/N give their newborn her first bath, leading to sweet and funny moments .

“Okay, we’ve got this. We’ve totally got this” I muttered, pacing nervously around the bathroom.

Charles stood beside me, holding our tiny, week-old daughter in his arms, her little fists clenched and face scrunched up like she already knew something was about to go wrong. Despite all the parenting classes we’d taken, nothing really prepared you for the real deal.

“We’ve watched the videos” Charles said, glancing nervously at me as we both stared at the small baby tub in front of us like it was some kind of complex machine. “We passed the parenting course… we’re basically experts, right?”

“Right” I agreed, though my voice was far less confident than I wanted it to be. “How hard could it be? People have been bathing babies forever.”

Charles carefully lowered our daughter toward the water, and I hovered over him, watching every tiny movement. We were both on edge—her little legs kicking slightly as her toes brushed the warm water.

“Is the temperature okay? You checked it, right?” he finally said, testing the water one more time with his elbow. “It’s not too hot, right?”

“I checked it five times, Charles. It’s fine” I reassured him, though I couldn’t help but dip my hand in the water one more time, just to be sure.

Gently, Charles settled her into the bath, and for a moment, everything seemed to be going perfectly. She looked peaceful, her tiny body just floating, and we both let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Are you ready, bébé?” he asked softly, glancing down at her, though it was more like he was asking himself that question.

“Charles, she can’t answer yet” I teased, crossing my arms as I leaned against the counter, enjoying watching him take charge. “But if she could, I’m sure she’d tell you to just go for it.”

“I’m being cautious.” He shot me a mock glare.

“You’re being a dad” I corrected, smiling as he finally eased her into the warm water. Her tiny body floated just enough, and for a second, everything seemed like it was going to go perfectly smooth.

Charles sighed, visibly relaxing as she cooed softly, clearly enjoying the water.

“I think we’re nailing this” he said, sounding like he was already patting himself on the back.

“She likes it” Charles said, beaming as he knelt beside the tub. “We’re doing great.”

I smiled, feeling the tension in my shoulders start to ease.

“See? We’re not complete disasters.”

Just as I reached for the washcloth, our daughter let out a sudden, loud wail, her face scrunching up in protest. Both Charles and I jumped at the sound.

“Oh no, oh no, what’s wrong?!” I panicked, leaning over the tub.

“I don’t know! Maybe she’s cold?” Charles suggested, his eyes wide.

“Quick! Warm water, more water!” I grabbed the small cup nearby, splashing some water over her, but it didn’t seem to help. Her cries only grew louder, echoing in the small bathroom.

“I thought babies liked baths!” I said over the noise.

“Maybe she changed her mind?” Charles replied, a nervous laugh escaping him as he tried to soothe her by gently splashing water with his hand.

At that moment, a tiny fountain of water shot up, and we both froze. I blinked, realizing what had just happened.

“Did she just—?”

“She did” Charles confirmed, his eyes wide in disbelief, as we both stared at the small arc of water.

“She peed on you” I managed, biting back a laugh as Charles just looked at me with a mixture of shock and amusement.

“She’s back to being our calm little angel.” I said, brushing my hand over her tiny foot.

“Well, at least now we know she’s hydrated” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. Charles joined in, shaking his head as he wiped his arm with the towel.

“So much for being ‘experts’.”

The bathroom was filled with nothing but the sound of our laughter and her quiet little gurgles.

“You think this is funny, huh? Giving your papa a hard time already.” Charles leaned in, looking down at her with a grin.

I watched as he carefully scooped her out of the tub, holding her close to his chest, wrapped in the soft, fluffy towel. She looked so tiny in his arms, her eyes blinking up at him with curiosity, as if she hadn’t just caused utter chaos a few seconds ago.

It's real what people say, it's beautiful to see the love of your life become a dad.

“I don’t think she likes me very much right now.” Charles sighed, shaking his head with a grin.

“Nonsense” I said, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

“I think she’s mocking us” I said, smiling as I stood next to him, leaning my head against his shoulder.

Charles chuckled, rocking her gently in his arms. “She’s going to be trouble, I can tell.”

“Definitely” I agreed. "She’s just keeping you on your toes.”

We stood there for a moment, just watching her, marveling at how something so small could bring so much joy—and so much unpredictability—into our lives.

“She’s going to keep us on our toes for the rest of our lives, isn’t she?” Charles asked, looking down at our daughter with a mix of awe and amusement.

“Definitely” I agreed, gently drying off her tiny toes as she yawned, clearly exhausted from all the excitement.

Charles smiled softly, holding her close as he rocked her in his arms. “I can’t wait.”

“Well” Charles said after a beat, his voice softening as he looked down at her again,

“I guess we survived our first bath.”

“Barely” I joked, but there was pride in my voice. We may not have been perfect, but we were learning—together.

As I reached up to kiss Charles on the cheek, our daughter let out a soft coo, snuggling deeper into his arms.

“Maybe next time, we’ll get through it without any unexpected showers” I teased, and Charles laughed, pressing a kiss to her tiny forehead.

“Next time, we’ll be pros,” he said confidently.

“You sure about that?”I raised an eyebrow.

“No, but we’ll figure it out. One bath at a time.” He gave me a cheeky smile

[trampleddoves]

interrogations on uneven footing

Spencer Reid needs information on a confidential case. He is not above using unconventional methods to get you to spill.

Series masterlist

Pairing: unsub!Spencer x afab!BAU!reader Content warnings: Smut, 1.7k words, DDDNE! Noncon, bondage, sensory deprivation (complete darkness), nipple play, fingering, edging, overstimulation. Mentions of a made-up case, post prison unsub Spencer. Note: MDNI. This is not for everyone, simply scroll past it if it’s not to your liking. I cannot stress this enough. Heed the content warnings. Proceed with caution.

Multiple zip ties bind you to a wooden chair, an entire row on each arm like some twisted version of the bracelets that normally adorn your person. Ensuring you can’t move, can’t get out. It’s something straight out of a movie, your solitary figure alone in a dark room. You would have laughed if it weren’t for the distracting fact that it’s real, and happening to you right now. 

Smooth plastic digs into your skin if you struggle against them, but ultimately these zip ties will leave no marks. Unlike rope. Unlike handcuffs. They will not slacken even if you sweat through them, unlike duct tape. 

Spencer Reid is nothing if not thorough.

You’ve lost count of how long he’s kept you here. A slight burning in the space between your thighs is a flagrant reminder of his previous attentions. Legs and ankles still parted in the same way he left them, held and bound by the same zip ties that keep your arms and wrists in place. Panties stretched obscenely around your knees from where Spencer tugged them down, just enough to get a glimpse of your pussy. An odious mixture of sweat and your drying arousal keeps your inner thighs slick. 

He hasn’t hurt you. He hasn’t even penetrated you, only parted your folds and coaxed your core to weeping with rough, expert fingertips, while he asked you for details on Gregory Hall. 

Your body is weak, but your mind is sharp. While your pussy clenched and fluttered for more, you’d been able to deny him the details that you’d promised to keep confidential. Emily Prentiss is counting on you to build this profile independently; there’s a lack of certainty with this case. Whether or not Gregory Hall is behind those murders remains a mystery, but your unit chief had entrusted you to keep tabs on him on the side. A job outside the normal bounds of being a profiler, but naive pride had kept you from declining. 

Eager to please. To prove yourself. Icarus flying too close to the sun. You had accepted shady messages from unknown informants, arranged meetings with risky people in order to advance. 

Icarus flying right into Spencer Reid’s trap.

No one knew what happened to him. It’s a boogeyman’s tale in the Bureau, the type that has people ducking their heads and resorting to hushed whispers. Spencer Reid, prodigy, genius, dedicated profiler—in prison for murder. After several butchered attempts to prove his innocence, the genius was subjected to twenty five years in prison, with a chance for parole sometime down the line. He had escaped six months later.

You had never met him in person, not until tonight. 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. The door creaks open, but no light comes through. You incline your head to the right, where his footfalls make dull taps against concrete ground.

“Ready to talk now, sweetheart?” his voice remains low, deceptively soothing. You flinch as his hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing tight. The weight seems to press you deeper into the uncomfortable wooden chair.

“I told you—”

“We both know you’re lying,” he’s bent over your back, tendrils of his hair brushing over your cheek, “You have more information on Gregory Hall than anyone else.”

His free hand crawls up your side, fingers finding the buttons on your blouse. Even in the inky darkness, his movements are deft, undoing buttons with ease. You grow stiffer by the second, shaking your head.

“What is it that keeps you from telling me, hm?” you feel his nose tracing a line down your neck, before landing at the sensitive patch where it meets your shoulder. He takes a shuddering inhale, before touching his lips to the spot, murmuring in smooth, velvet tones, “Are you afraid you’ll get in trouble with Emily? I’d be the last person to talk to her, trust me.”

Trust. What a silly word, considering the circumstances. You almost want to spit at him, at his trust.

“What do you even want with it?” you reply instead, shuddering as both arms wrap around you, meeting at your chest to work on unbuttoning your shirt. Your skin grows slick with sweat, broken apart by goosebumps from every brush of his fingers. He’s been so gentle.

You both know he could hurt you, if he wishes to. The restraint he’s exhibiting is simply another layer of depravity, another way to toy with your mind, a looming reminder that this could be worse. 

That’s the problem. Hating him, hating your predicament, hating this twisted interrogation, would infinitely be easier if he were manhandling you. Causing wicked purple and blue blossoms over your skin like a perverse garden. Pulling your hair back so tightly they rip from your scalp.

You never thought you’d ever wish for violence, yet part of your yearns for it at this moment. It’s easier to reconcile violence with the violation you’re currently experiencing. Because that’s what this is. Violation. Assault. Spencer Reid exerting his will over you because he can. Because he wants something only you have access to.

“I simply need to know if my theory is correct, doll.” he coos, finally easing your blouse off your shoulders. Just enough so he could tug your bra down your chest, straps slipping down your shoulders. 

You whimper into the silence of the room, partially thankful for the lack of light. At least he can’t see you. At least you’ve been given the dignity to keep your face hidden. 

However, it poses another problem. One you had been grappling with all night. This impenetrable darkness goes both ways, blinds both of you. And without your sense of sight, everything else is heightened. 

When his thumb brushes over your nipple, the taste of blood floods your mouth. Your teeth had broken through the skin of your lower lip. Another flick, and then both thumbs begin to circle your nipples, and you shudder as they harden into stiff peaks. Another round of interrogation. He’s slowly wearing you down, you realize, literally stripping off your clothing, and in turn, adding more stimulation. 

Earlier, he had just been playing with your clit, attempting to wheedle out the information from you until your labia grew puffy from overstimulation. At your staunch refusal, he had left.

And now he’s back, pinching and tugging your nipples as you cling to your stubborn, one minded goal to keep the information to yourself.

“I would assume we have the same goal, anyway,” he murmurs, humming as he presses his large palms to your breasts, squishing them, your nipples hard and poking into his palms, “Prove he’s guilty.”

“How did you even know I was on the case?” you whimper, squirming as you feel your traitorous body reacting. The familiar warmth coiling at your lower belly. 

“You weren’t difficult to track, even I could find traces of your dealings and I have an aversion to technology. Tell me what you know, doll.” he replies, one hand leaving your chest and traveling down. You dread what’s about to come, dread the inescapable fact that he’ll cup your sex and find you drenched again.

When his hand meets your exposed pussy, he hums, a self satisfied sound that mocks you to your very being. 

“So fucking wet for me.” he hisses, licking a stripe up your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to do much but squirm uselessly on the chair. “You know, I’m beginning to think you want to be kept here.”

“No.” the word is sharp and clear, to your relief.

“Really? Yet you refuse to tell me what you know,” his index finger finds your entrance, circling it while the heel of his palm pressed on your clit, “You know the information will get you out of this.”

“I wouldn’t know that,” you hiss through gritted teeth, nails digging into your palms as he strokes up and down your slick folds, teasingly. Soon, your nails will break the skin there too, and you’ll be left with bloodied lips and hands, all from your own doing. How ironic, “For all I know, you’d kill me the moment you get what you want from me.”

“I’ve been a man of my word so far, haven’t I? I told you I won’t hurt you.” A finger breaches your entrance, sinking knuckle deep. True to his word, no pain is felt. Only the relief of the stretch, the fullness your disloyal body has been craving. “Besides, doll, you’re of more use to me alive.” Another finger. Your pussy clenches around them greedily.

“I - no.” It’s weaker now, breathless.

He laughs. He’s gone through this song and dance earlier, but now his fingers inside you are reinforced by his other hand palming your chest. “So you do like this. You just keep saying no to giving me information, doll, it seems you want to stay here and let meplay with your pretty pussy, hm?” his fingers begin a slow pace, thrusting in and out of your wet channel. Every time he buries them inside, they crook just so, hitting that perfect spot that has you straining against your bounds. This time, it isn’t out of a desire to get out. This time, it’s out of overwhelming pleasure.

“S-stop.”

“Stop?  I can feel you clenching.” he drags his fingers out slowly, and indeed, your pussy clenches around the digits like you never want them to leave. Spencer laughs, biting your earlobe as he transfers his ministrations to your clit. Quick, steady circles that have your thighs quivering.

“Reid, stop,” your plea is weak, pitiful.

“Tell me what you know.”

“No.”

He removes his hands. You choke back a sob, feeling your hair sticking to your forehead as you struggle to regain your senses. His next words are spoken from afar, and you realize he’s leaving again. “I’ll keep you here for days, if I have to, doll.” a threat. A promise.

Spencer Reid is a man of his word. As the door shuts, you realize you’ve condemned yourself to this fate.

[wachinyeya]

When Stockholm’s Traffic Office conducted a general assessment of street traffic in the Swedish capital in 2001, it came to the shocking conclusion that two-thirds of all trees in the city center were dead or dying.

City authorities agreed that an urgent response was needed to nurse these leafy urban ecosystem pillars back to health.

Enter Björn Embrén, Stockholm’s first “tree officer.”

Under his leadership, various technologies and materials were tested in an attempt to create a more suitable living space for trees in the urban environment.

“I knew that they could grow if the circumstances were right,” says Embrén, a former professional gardener.

“It’s like putting a plastic bag over your head and tightening it over your neck,” says Embrén. “That’s what happened to the trees in Stockholm. They were dying.”

Eventually, inspired by railroad embankments — which require only a small amount of organic matter for healthy trees to grow — Embrén concocted what was to become known as the “Stockholm tree pit” model.

By 2002, Embrén had drawn up designs. And by 2003, they were already building.

The design involves digging a pit and constructing a frame underground around the tree’s roots, and then filling said pit with a mixture of soil and stone, sometimes including biochar, to both aerate and fertilize the soil. These permeable layers are very strong and physically adaptable but also allow stormwater to flow in, meaning the trees are provided with sufficient air and water naturally. They also allow rainwater to be soaked up — a necessity amid more extreme weather brought on by climate change.

“We found that the more breathable the materials we used, the happier the trees were,” adds Embrén.

Proponents say the method has a number of benefits, including the fact that pits can be installed around existing trees, they can bear the weight of heavy-vehicle traffic, they require little topsoil — a resource that is becoming scarce — and they need less watering than traditionally-planted trees.

This approach, which allows tree roots to thrive beneath hard surfacing, ergo allowing healthy trees to grow within the modern built environment, is particularly relevant as cities attempt to re-green and reforest in the face of climate change.

According to the United Nations Economic Commission for Europe, urban forests can help “future-proof” cities, which are responsible for about 75 percent of global CO2 emissions. Sustainable urban forestry, it says, can bring multiple benefits, such as lowering temperatures, improving public health, creating habitats for biodiversity, sequestering carbon, generating green jobs, and mitigating risks of floods and landslides.

“It’s more important now than ever before,” says Ryan Klein, an assistant professor in the Department of Environmental Horticulture at the University of Florida. “We have these massive populations in urban areas. And we’re seeing more extreme weather like hurricanes, wildfires and prolonged droughts. Trees can help to offset some of these negative effects.”

However, amid the rush to rapidly reforest cities, experts like Klein warn that due to ineffective methods and techniques being used, it’s common to see urban trees in poor health, and trees planted in cities often have very high mortality rates.

“We have the understanding of how to grow healthier, more sustainable and resilient forests,” says Klein. “The research backs it. Unfortunately, we don’t always invest the time, money or internal know-how on implementing this.”

A review of 16 scientific studies on urban tree mortality, published in 2019, found that in the first five years after planting, 6.6 to 7 percent of trees died annually.

“Urban soils are not very tree-friendly currently,” says Rik De Vreese, leader of the Urban Forestry Team at the European Forestry Institute. “It’s quite a serious threat.”

When trees aren’t properly anchored, De Vreese adds, it can also lead to other issues, such as trunks falling over and causing damage or roots warping sidewalks.

However, the Stockholm Tree Pit method — and the way that it’s been implemented in Sweden — is helping urban forests genuinely take root.

One of the first locations where Embrén introduced a tree pit was Erik Dahlbergsallén street in Stockholm, not far from the popular Swedish Museum of Natural History.

There, according to research by the municipality, the circumference of a selection of those planted trees increased from 30 to 35 centimeters to 70 to 83 centimeters between 2004 and 2013, even surpassing that of trees without the tree pits that have been there for more than 80 years. The latest figures from 2024 saw them reach between 100 and 136 centimeters.

“It’s easy to see how effective the pits have been,” says Embrén.

The municipality estimates that 2.3 million liters of rainwater are managed by the trees per year, and consequently, 4,600 square meters of roofs and sidewalks have been disconnected from the sewage system, reducing the burden on water treatment services.

This technique has proven so successful that it has become the standard for all other development projects in the public spaces of Stockholm. Embrén says he has been directly involved in constructing more than 3,000 tree pits, and while he has since retired, there are now three “tree officers” who have taken on the expanding role. 

Britt-Marie Alvem, one of the current tree officers, estimates that the city now builds between 500 and 1,000 tree pits a year.

These days, the tree pits are also in almost every Swedish city — with a few variations.

“Some have copied and changed a little bit, like adding pumice to the stone mix,” says Embrén.

Stockholm’s tree pits are now spreading across Europe, too. In Budapest, Hungary’s capital, the tree pits can be found all over Bartók Béla Boulevard and Arany János Street. Embrén says the Spanish city of Madrid has implemented the method using local materials. And it’s become increasingly popular in the U.K.

Ben Rose, the principal arboricultural consultant at U.K. tree service Bosky Trees and the founder of Stockholm Tree Pits, a U.K.-based company that produces the equipment required to make tree pits, says that he has planted about 500 trees using the Stockholm model in the U.K. since he began in 2019, mostly as part of small-scale pilot projects.

“The approach is very suitable for use in urban situations, particularly in car parks, in plazas, and beside walkways or cycle paths,” says Rose.

Join the Reasons to be Cheerful community by supporting our nonprofit publication and giving what you can. JoinCancel anytime

Yet there are some drawbacks to the system. Installation costs can be high, the pits can require a large amount of space to install, and it is impossible to reuse existing soil. In addition, for now there is a relative dearth of professionals who know how to construct tree pits.

“Our main concern is the price,” says De Vreese, whose team is currently studying the importance of “structural soils” like those deployed by the tree pits. “Excavating the soil surrounding the tree and refilling it is no small job.”

And while Professor Klein praises the Stockholm Tree Pit’s use of structural soil and how effective it’s proven to be, he notes that the long-term success of urban forestry also relies on other factors such as the supply of high quality nursery stock and proactive tree management such as routine pruning by municipalities.

“If we don’t have these we are setting ourselves up for failure,” he says. “Some cities do the bare minimum. In the U.S.A., it’s the wild west. But others, like Stockholm, are proactive, and they have public officials seriously behind it. That’s what we need.”

By: Peter Yeung, March 4, 2025

[alia-alia12]

𖧹gojo satoru x fem!reader

𖧹smut; gojo fucks you in the shower

𖧹1.1k

𖧹mdni

𖧹omg my first smut, kinda nervous to post it but here we are.

thinking about sleepy satoru who wakes to an empty bed, a pout forming on his lips when he realizes you aren't there laying next to him.

he drags himself out of bed, bare feet hitting the cool floor, as he goes in search of you, wanting his dose of morning kisses and cuddles. he hears the shower running and his cock stirs in his pants, the thought of you naked and wet and soapy wakes him up instantly.

its foggy inside the bathroom and he hears the sound of you singing softly to yourself when he steps inside.

silently, he strips himself of his clothes and walks over to the shower door, pulling it back. your head turns at the sound of his arrival, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth when you spot him.

"morning 'toru" you say as he steps in behind you, his arms coming up to wrap around your waist, fingers rubbing at the soft skin. he rests his chin on your shoulder.

"morning," he mumbles, voice deep and still laced with sleep. you gasp when you feel his hardness pressed against your back.

"someone's excited" you say turning to face him. gojo's lips curl into a lazy smile as he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before letting his lips trail down to your check, then the other one before finally hovering just in front of your lips.

"how could i not be?" he questions, his voice rich with affection and need. "woke up to an empty bed only to find you in here, all wet and irresistible."

his hands roam over your soapy body down to your hips where he pulls you flush against him. the hot water cascades over both of you, mingling with the heat of radiating from your bodies.

his lips capture yours in a slow, lingering kiss, his tongue teasing yours in a rhythm that makes your knees weak. when he pulls back, you're left breathless, staring up at him with a mix of ameusment and desire.

"you know, toru," you say, your voice teasing, "this shower was supposed to help me wake up."

satoru chuckles, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass. "oh, i'll wake you up" he replies, his tone a mixture of promise and mischief.

before you can respond, his turns you around, pushing you against the cold shower walls. his lips find that sensitive spot just below your ear, sucking and nibbling as his cock presses against you, hard and insistent.

his hands are everywhere, roaming, caressing, teasing. when one slides between your thighs, you cant suppress the soft moan that escapes your lips, your forehead pressed against the wall.

"toru…” you gasp, your voice breathy and laced with need.

his fingers find your clit, rubbing teasing circles until your legs are trembling from the pleasure. gojo groans, his arousal evident as he presses harder against you, his other hand steady on your hip.

"you drive me crazy, you know that?" he whispers against your ear and a shiver runs down your spine. satoru's hands move with expert precision, squeezing and caressing you in the way he knows makes your head spin. the warmth of the water contrasts deliciously with the coolness of the tiles and the heat of his body against yours.

when two of his fingers push past your entrance, you let out a soft moan, your forehead pressed against the wall. gojo groans at the sound, his arousal evident as he presses against you, his lips trailing kisses down your spin.

you whine something inaudible when his fingers find your gspot.

"what is it? tell me what you want, baby," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, bringing you to the edge of pleasure but not quite you letting you fall over.

you whimper, tilting your head back to meet his gaze over your shoulder, your cheeks flushed and your eyes half lidded with desire. and when you're finally able to get the words out they come out desperate and filled with desire. "i want you, toru— please fuck me."

"good girl" he mumbles as he frees his fingers and wraps his hand around his cock, stroking himself once then twice before he's hiking your leg up, and lining himself up with your fluttering hole.

with one slow, deliberate motion, he pushes into you. the stretch is intoxicating and you both groan as he fills you completely, his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

the tightness of your walls around his cock is almost too much, he nearly cums right then and there but he manages to breathe through it and soon he's pulling out, leaving nothing but the tip in before slamming right back in, over and over again until he bottoms out.

his hips being rolling in a rhythm that's slow and deliberate, drawing a symphony of soft moans and mewls from your parted lips. his hand grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he fucks you, pace quickening, the heat between you building with every stroke.

"f-fuck satoru… y-you're so fuck— fucking big" you stutter, hands clawing at the wall as satoru stretches you out. you feel so full. you push your ass out more when he picks up the pace, meeting his thrusts as best as you can, your body pulsing with pleasure. satoru reaches around to rub circles on your clit in time with his thrusts, every touch driving you closer to the edge.

"i'm close" you manage, voice trembling as the tension in your core tightens.

"cum for me," he whispers, his voice laced with need. "i want to feel you fall apart around me." the combination of his flithy words, deep, confident thrusts and the intense circles on your puffy clit pushes you over the edge, your climax crashing over you like waves in the ocean.

your walls tighten around him, pleasure washing over you. you cry out, your voice echoing in the steamy shower as your legs tremble.

gojo moans loudly, his movements become erratic as he chase his own release. with one final thrust, he shudders against you, his release spilling into you as he buries his face in your neck.

the two of you stay like that for a while, just basking in each others presence, as you catch your breath. satoru presses a tender kiss to your shoulder before pulling back slightly, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

"best morning ever," he says. “let’s move to the bedroom.”

you laugh softly, turning to face him and wrapping your arms around his neck. "you're insatiable, you know that?"

"only when it comes to you," he replies, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to your lips.