#professional web scraping

[actowizsolutions0]

Enhance Data Extraction with AI for Smarter Insights

In today’s data-driven world, businesses need efficient ways to gather and process vast amounts of information. Traditional data extraction methods can be time-consuming and prone to errors, making AI-powered solutions a game-changer. By integrating artificial intelligence, companies can enhance data extraction with AI, leading to faster, more accurate, and scalable data collection processes.

The Power of AI in Data Extraction

Artificial intelligence is transforming how data is collected and analyzed. Unlike conventional scraping techniques, AI-powered extraction adapts to changes in website structures, understands unstructured data, and ensures high accuracy. Businesses leveraging AI can:

Automate Data Collection: Reduce manual efforts and speed up data processing.

Improve Accuracy: AI algorithms minimize errors by intelligently recognizing patterns.

Scale Efficiently: Handle large datasets with ease, making data extraction more reliable.

To explore how AI enhances web scraping, check out our detailed insights on web scraping with AI.

Why Businesses Need AI-Driven Data Extraction

Industries across various sectors rely on high-quality data for decision-making. Whether tracking competitor prices, monitoring customer sentiment, or extracting market trends, AI-powered data extraction offers unmatched efficiency. Here are some use cases:

1. E-commerce and Retail

Companies can extract real-time promotions data to stay ahead of market trends and offer competitive pricing. Learn more about how AI can help businesses extract real-time promotions data.

2. Real Estate Market Insights

AI-driven tools streamline real estate data scraping services, helping businesses gather property listings, pricing trends, and investment opportunities. Find out how our real estate data scraping services provide valuable insights.

3. Grocery and Retail Analytics

AI-powered scraping solutions can track grocery sales trends and consumer behavior. Check out how we analyze the Blinkit sales dataset for deeper business insights.

How Professional Web Scraping Enhances AI Integration

A key aspect of AI-driven data extraction is leveraging professional web scraping solutions. These services ensure seamless data retrieval, improved data quality, and real-time analytics, enabling businesses to make data-backed decisions efficiently.

Conclusion

Enhancing data extraction with AI is no longer a luxury but a necessity for businesses looking to stay competitive. AI-powered solutions offer automation, accuracy, and scalability, transforming raw data into actionable insights. Ready to leverage AI for your data needs? Explore our web scraping solutions today!

[datascraping001]

Google Search Results Data Scraping

Google Search Results Data Scraping

Harness the Power of Information with Google Search Results Data Scraping Services by DataScrapingServices.com. In the digital age, information is king. For businesses, researchers, and marketing professionals, the ability to access and analyze data from Google search results can be a game-changer. However, manually sifting through search results to gather relevant data is not only time-consuming but also inefficient. DataScrapingServices.com offers cutting-edge Google Search Results Data Scraping services, enabling you to efficiently extract valuable information and transform it into actionable insights.

The vast amount of information available through Google search results can provide invaluable insights into market trends, competitor activities, customer behavior, and more. Whether you need data for SEO analysis, market research, or competitive intelligence, DataScrapingServices.com offers comprehensive data scraping services tailored to meet your specific needs. Our advanced scraping technology ensures you get accurate and up-to-date data, helping you stay ahead in your industry.

List of Data Fields

Our Google Search Results Data Scraping services can extract a wide range of data fields, ensuring you have all the information you need:

-Business Name: The name of the business or entity featured in the search result.

- URL: The web address of the search result.

- Website: The primary website of the business or entity.

- Phone Number: Contact phone number of the business.

- Email Address: Contact email address of the business.

 - Physical Address: The street address, city, state, and ZIP code of the business.

- Business Hours: Business operating hours

- Ratings and Reviews: Customer ratings and reviews for the business.

- Google Maps Link: Link to the business’s location on Google Maps.

- Social Media Profiles: LinkedIn, Twitter, Facebook

These data fields provide a comprehensive overview of the information available from Google search results, enabling businesses to gain valuable insights and make informed decisions.

Benefits of Google Search Results Data Scraping

1. Enhanced SEO Strategy

Understanding how your website ranks for specific keywords and phrases is crucial for effective SEO. Our data scraping services provide detailed insights into your current rankings, allowing you to identify opportunities for optimization and stay ahead of your competitors.

2. Competitive Analysis

Track your competitors’ online presence and strategies by analyzing their rankings, backlinks, and domain authority. This information helps you understand their strengths and weaknesses, enabling you to adjust your strategies accordingly.

3. Market Research

Access to comprehensive search result data allows you to identify trends, preferences, and behavior patterns in your target market. This information is invaluable for product development, marketing campaigns, and business strategy planning.

4. Content Development

By analyzing top-performing content in search results, you can gain insights into what types of content resonate with your audience. This helps you create more effective and engaging content that drives traffic and conversions.

5. Efficiency and Accuracy

Our automated scraping services ensure you get accurate and up-to-date data quickly, saving you time and resources.

Best Google Data Scraping Services

Scraping Google Business Reviews

Extract Restaurant Data From Google Maps

Google My Business Data Scraping

Google Shopping Products Scraping

Google News Extraction Services

Scrape Data From Google Maps

Google News Headline Extraction   

Google Maps Data Scraping Services

Google Map Businesses Data Scraping

Google Business Reviews Extraction

Best Google Search Results Data Scraping Services in USA

Dallas, Portland, Los Angeles, Virginia Beach, Fort Wichita, Nashville, Long Beach, Raleigh, Boston, Austin, San Antonio, Philadelphia, Indianapolis, Orlando, San Diego, Houston, Worth, Jacksonville, New Orleans, Columbus, Kansas City, Sacramento, San Francisco, Omaha, Honolulu, Washington, Colorado, Chicago, Arlington, Denver, El Paso, Miami, Louisville, Albuquerque, Tulsa, Springs, Bakersfield, Milwaukee, Memphis, Oklahoma City, Atlanta, Seattle, Las Vegas, San Jose, Tucson and New York.

Conclusion

In today’s data-driven world, having access to detailed and accurate information from Google search results can give your business a significant edge. DataScrapingServices.com offers professional Google Search Results Data Scraping services designed to meet your unique needs. Whether you’re looking to enhance your SEO strategy, conduct market research, or gain competitive intelligence, our services provide the comprehensive data you need to succeed. Contact us at info@datascrapingservices.com today to learn how our data scraping solutions can transform your business strategy and drive growth.

Website: Datascrapingservices.com

Email: info@datascrapingservices.com

[lostintransist]

Broken Beyond Bearing | Part 6

-. —- / .-. . -.-. —- .-. -.. … / . -..- .. … - / ..-. —- .-. / …. . .-.

Part 1 found here | AO3

Johnny watches. He’s good at it. Not many notice that only ticks above his bright smile and well-placed nose are even brighter eyes. Oh, they notice the color, hard to miss his shade of blue, but they missed the brilliance behind them. Quick and sharp, they’ve served him well. Distraction as well as detection.

You stomped from the truck before he could put it in park, slamming both the car and front doors. Johnny followed more sedately as he thought about what you had said. Two weeks without a food delivery, and no one answering their calls. Why didn’t you leave a message? Had you tried Kate? She would have said something, wouldn’t she?

One of the reasons he earned the nickname Soap came from how well he could clean a room. Now that he has you back, he can take in more than the absence of wife. On the couch sat the laptop they had given you, sitting at an angle atop a blanket that spoke of an imminent return. Everything from the cans moldering in the bin to the slight wrinkles in your neatly made bed spoke of intentions.

You had stomped through the house and right out the back door. His coat lay tossed across the counter. A rhythmic scraping of plastic against snow tells a tale. Interesting.

Two weeks without a delivery shouldn’t have sent you sliding down the mountain in your boots. They had left the second vehicle for you, keys hanging in the kitchen. Stepping into the space now Johnny’s eyes were drawn to the hook. It looked exactly as they had left it. So interesting. Johnny can feel his brows pull together as pieces slide around in his mind. It almost makes sense. The picture is forming despite the missing bits.

Turning, he opens the freezer and finds it half full with neatly wrapped hunks of frozen meat. They reminded him of gifts, all packed in white paper and tape. Two roasts and a pork shoulder stared out at him from among frozen veg. You didn’t eat much, and there was enough food in the house to keep you sustained for more than two weeks. Pulling out a roast, Johnny set about getting dinner ready, keeping one ear out for you. With the other, he pops in a headphone and calls Kate. The roast is in the crockpot, and the potatoes on the counter before she answers.

“Laswell.”

Kate’s voice is professional but tired. She had been neck deep in a project they weren’t involved in for months now. It had to be something about you.

“Kate, got a question for you.” Johnny lets his voice reflect a calm happiness.

“If this is about the extra C4—”

Johnny cut in, letting the anger that burned in his bones out. The knife he had pulled from the block to cut potatoes caused his hand to ache from the grip he had on it.

“This is about our new wife, Kate.”

The electronic buzz of silence in his ear told so many tales.

Realizing she wouldn’t be volunteering any information, Johnny takes charge of the conversation. Gently resting the knife on the counter, he lets his body move, finding the cutting board, and begins washing the potatoes.

“Did you know she’s allergic to peanuts?”

Papers rustle through the line.

“No, I didn’t.” Kate bit the words out.

“Why can’t she drive, Kate?” He sets each clean root to the side. Johnny imagines this conversation as a series of tugs on a spider’s web.

“Obviously she was never taught, Soap,” Kate replied, exasperation floating her words.

“She took herself to town on foot because the food deliveries stopped. There is food in the house, but it requires cooking. A peek in the garbage tells me she spent the entire time on canned or fresh food. I’m not a good cook, Kate, but even I know how to throw a roast in a slow cooker. Where did you find her?”

“Soap,” Kate dragged out the word like he would give up his questioning if she held it long enough. Something clicked in his mind. Kate wouldn’t have found her in any normal way. Betas were rare these days and Kate never ended up on projects that didn’t involve some level of fuckery. Chopping the veg, he loads them into the crockpot and dumps enough spices that Simon would whine about a stomach ache if he were here.

“Kate,” her name crunched between his teeth. He growled out his next words. “What the hell happened to her?”

Leaving time and heat to do their work, Johnny turns to the wood-burning stove.

He prepares it while waiting for Kate to navigate the mental hurdles of telling him the truth. Johnny wonders about you. If he were to put you on canvas, it would be a study in contrasts; pastels peering through pockets in watercolor.

“We are two days out from this hitting the news, so keep your mouth shut until after the story drops. Your security clearance isn’t high enough for most of this.” Kate muttered a bit more that he almost missed, “Neither is John’s, for that matter.”

His clearance was pretty damn high, what could have happened that required a higher clearance than what John had currently?

“Better talk fast, then, Kate.”

She does, and with each new sentence, Johnny thinks he is going to be sick.

The stove is cool, and cleaning the ash gives him something to do while he listens to the horrors Kate and her team found in the facility where you had been kept.

While spring had started to unfurl with the appearance of dandelions in the valley, winter reigned here for at least another month before spring could creep beneath the drifts. Lighting a small pile of kindling inside the black stove, Johnny continued to listen. Feeding the hungry licks of heat, he made his plan.

Snagging his coat, Johnny popped down to the truck.

“So let me see if I understand this. You’re telling me that betas lost their rights thirty years back and then were shuttled off in droves to facilities that experimented on them to the point that they discovered the calmers that are being pumped into the water system.” Johnny rubbed the inner corner of his eyes. “But you don’t have her full chart? You don’t know what happened to her?”

Kate sighed, and the distinctive sound of a lighter flaring to life reached him. He pulled open the back door of the truck and shouldered his pack.

“I thought your wife wanted you to quit,” Johnny commented lightly.

“My wife has given me a pass until this is all wrapped up,” Kate replied darkly. “No, we don’t have her full chart. What we do have are records of nearly 6,500 dead betas, and being realistic, there are probably three times that many between all the branches of Scorpio. All we did find was the most recent data about your wife, and it didn’t tell us much, only the drugs they pumped her with the two days before the raid.”

Johnny stared at the stitching of the back seat as he absorbed this information.

“Is there anything else I need to know about our wife, Kate?”

The silence is telling.

“Nothing I can tell you. If she shares anything about what happened to her, would you let me know? We are going to have to recreate Scorpio’s records.”

“I’ll let you know.” Johnny ended the call with a tap to his headphone. He slammed the truck door, watching the body of the vehicle rock under the force of his anger. When he could breathe without vomit staining his throat, he headed inside.

Shutting the front door tight to keep the slowly warming air, he rested his pack on the back of the couch. Digging through the tightly packed clothes, he unearths his sketch book and removes the wall stickers he had found in a tiny shop outside of a base he couldn’t recall the name of. Sprinkles, for you. Johnny set them on top of your laptop. Everything is shoved back into the bag as best he can manage; it gets left by the stairs to deal with later.

With that settled, he headed to the back door to invite you inside. The interior had reached an almost cozy temperature. The sheriff’s office had refused to give up your phone, coat, and the cards that clearly stated your name. John would call to rip the entire office a new asshole once he heard what had happened.

Johnny watches you. Feet spread wide, head down, shoulders tense under your shawl, and your fist tight around the snow shovel tells quite a tale. Sliding the glass door open, he watches as every speck of you shrinks. When you turn, there is no snarling beta who sent the deputy into a tizzy by singing made-up lines to nursery rhymes or a wife who would rather scar him with her teeth than accept his concern.

He eyes you over dinner. Johnny, with his blue eyes that would cut if they were ice, smiled with closed lips every time he caught your eye. After two weeks of suspicion, it rankled.

“Stop staring,” you mutter the words as you stab a potato that has taunted you. Cleaning was a skill valued in Scorpio. Cooking? Not so much. You didn’t dare open the cooking oven for fear of something happening.

“I missed you.”

The sincerity in his words whispers to you like the demons that lived below the floorboards. An offer too good to be true. The mask that kept you safe in Scorpio, calm and sweet with big, sad eyes, slips as you glare up at him.

“There she is,” he says, sounding pleased.

“Who?” You roll the question off your tongue with the hesitance of a base jumper on their first dive.

“The beta who nearly sent a deputy to murder with nursery rhymes.” Johnny smiled with his whole face, cheeks pulled up, and bright eyes wrinkled at the edges.

The heat suffusing through you rivaled that of the stove. You dropped your gaze to the plate before you. Only streaks were left from dinner. There is no good way to soft-step through the differences he had seen today. You were so careful before they left to play that submissive, quiet beta that everyone could accept. Nearly a decade of pretending slid off, bleached by the sun, and cleaned the crows that kept you company.

With a wink, Johnny stood from the table. He took your plate and set them in the sink.

“Let me take care of those!” You squeak out as you jump to your feet.

Johnny gives you a lopsided smile and steps out of the way. Turning on the water, you focus on the sensation of the water and soap on your skin and not the heat of him at your back. He stays for longer than you anticipated, but after the first plate is clean and placed in the drying rack, Johnny leans in and places a kiss on your temple.

“I’m going to shower. You’re up after me, I doubt the sheriff’s office took good care of you.”

His scent lingers in your nose and in the air even as he walks away. The shower is still running when the dishes are done. Deciding that the suggestion was a good one, you head to your room. The main bathroom is opposite your room. Turning left from the kitchen, you spot Johnny’s open pack, shirts spilling from the gaping top. Without a thought, you snag one. It is nestled neatly under your pillow.

You don’t think about the shirt again until you are tucked behind the bathroom door, Johnny and his body wash clogging up your throat. He had knocked on your door when he had finished up. The warm water washing over your skin prickled with a tad too much pressure. Something was off. Turning your back to the spray, you let your hands wander, sometimes your beta side couldn’t come out and tell you what you needed, but you had learned to let it out by degrees.

Both hands settle at your breasts, kneading and plucking at nipples. This remains your focus for long enough that you start shifting from side to side, needs rising. Running your tongue over your teeth, you decide you can indulge this need, but you need to be clean first. When you reach for the soap, since you did your hair before the internal unease had escalated, the one wet from Johnny’s hand is the one you lathered into your cloth.

The scratch of the rag on your skin escalated the need settling between your nerves. Cleaning to your toes, you rinse off and wring out the cloth. Adding more soap you focus on cleaning between your legs and ass cheeks. Bringing the rag back to the stream of water, the mixed scent of slick and Johnny’s body wash simultaneously causes a rush of need and a stream of terror to rocket through you.

Fuck. Your heat was coming.

Broken Masterlist | Masterlist

@lucienofthelakes @gg-trini @talia-the-gemini @thriving-n-jiving @z-wantstowrite @asialovesyou09 @literallegendicon @canthavetoomuchchaos @reinekoya @jsptmoche @demothers-empty-blog @hbaasaad @sun-daddy-yoriichi @wiciclesatmidnight @kaoyamamegami @little-mini-me-world @corvid007 @skeletonsucker @feyresqueen @dreamland08 @sweetybuzz25 @minxx3d @ovxlovxy @night-shadowblood-writes2

[buttercandy16]

Asylum

Chapter Three: Tangled Webs

PAIRING(s): Psychiatrist!Agatha Harkness x Patient!Reader x Inmate!Rio Vidal

SUMMARY: Wrongfully imprisoned, Reader becomes the obsession of Agatha, a cunning psychiatrist, and Rio, a fiery inmate. Together, they’ll ensure she’s theirs—forever.

WARNING(s): Obsession, Manipulation, Violence, Confinement, Madness, Dubcon, and Betrayal.

A/N: Getting impatient so I've written the chapters a little bit longer this time, lol. 💜💚

The asylum corridors stretched endlessly, the hum of fluorescent lights casting an eerie glow against the pale walls. You walked with purpose—or as much as you could muster with the guards escorting you back from another monotonous group therapy session. The others had shuffled out, their faces blank or twitching with nervous energy, but you had lingered, reluctant to return to the silence of your cell.

Still, something about this day felt heavier, as though the walls themselves were closing in.

You let your eyes wander to the narrow windows set high in the walls. They offered no view of the outside world, just streaks of faint sunlight blotted by grime. You hadn’t breathed fresh air since the courtyard incident two days ago—the day both Agatha and Rio had laid their first unmistakable claims on you.

Since then, things had only gotten worse.

Agatha was growing more possessive, though she cloaked it under the guise of "help." Her nightly visits were no longer requests—they were commands.

"How are you feeling today?" she would begin, pulling her chair closer to the foot of your bed, her body radiating professional detachment. But her eyes betrayed her, glinting with something far darker.

The questions always began the same. Innocuous. Gentle. But as her visits stretched longer, her inquiries became probing, almost intimate.

"Tell me about your dreams," she asked one night, her voice a low hum that wrapped around you like a coil.

"Why does it matter?" you countered, trying to erect barriers against her quiet, predatory intensity.

"Dreams are where the mind reveals itself, darling," she replied, the endearment slipping from her lips with a slow, deliberate precision.

She leaned closer, her face framed by the cold fluorescent glow. Her eyes, sharp and bottomless, felt as though they could see everything you wanted to keep hidden.

“Is someone here making you... uncomfortable?” Agatha pressed, her tone soft but edged with deadly purpose. “Rio, perhaps?”

Your stomach twisted. Agatha had developed a habit of bringing up Rio unprompted, usually just before slipping in warnings: She’s dangerous. You mustn’t trust her. Tell me if she bothers you.

And then there were Rio’s games.

Unlike Agatha’s cold calculation, Rio’s attention burned. Her obsession wasn’t hidden behind masks of professionalism—it was raw, wild, and impossible to ignore.

She found you in the common areas, corners of hallways, even the cafeteria line. Wherever you tried to blend into the background, she pulled you out, commanding your attention like it belonged solely to her.

“Eat with me,” she demanded one afternoon, her tray thudding down beside yours without hesitation.

You opened your mouth to argue, but Rio was already pulling your chair closer to hers with one long arm, the metal scraping loudly. The eyes of the other patients turned briefly toward you both before averting just as quickly—no one dared cross Rio Vidal.

“Look at you, sitting all stiff like someone’s about to shank you,” she said, biting into an apple, her teeth slicing through the flesh with a sharp crack. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

The sharpness in her grin told you that was a lie.

You focused on your food, ignoring the prickling heat of her gaze as it roamed over you.

“Bet it drives Agatha crazy,” Rio mused suddenly, her voice dropping low. She shifted closer, her breath brushing the side of your face. “The way I keep talking to you. She watches, you know. She always watches.”

“I—what?” you stammered, glancing toward her.

Rio chuckled, leaning back and tossing her apple core carelessly onto her tray. “Sweetheart, don’t play dumb. She’s obsessed with you.” Her eyes glinted with amusement, but her smile quickly turned predatory. “Not that I blame her. You're special. Different from all the broken toys here.”

Your throat tightened as you tried to process her words. Rio was lying—or was she?

“She wants to own you,” Rio continued, her voice dropping lower, dangerously intimate. “Just like I do.”

Her words were like a slap, and your hand trembled as you set down your fork.

“I don’t belong here,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

Rio’s expression shifted for a split second, something unreadable flickering behind her confidence. Then, she reached across the table, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

“That’s where you’re wrong, mi amor.” Her grin turned wicked. “You’re exactly where you need to be.”

When Agatha appeared in your doorway that night, you weren’t surprised. The light in the hallway framed her figure, tall and commanding as ever, though there was something different in her expression—a tightness in her jaw, an edge to her gaze.

"May I come in?" she asked, though you knew it wasn’t a question.

You nodded reluctantly, retreating to the far corner of the room as she stepped inside.

Agatha closed the door with deliberate care before turning her full attention to you. She didn’t sit this time, instead choosing to hover close, her presence suffocating in the small space.

"Rio speaks to you often," she said abruptly, skipping all pretense.

You froze, panic fluttering in your chest. How much did she know?

"She's dangerous," Agatha continued, her tone as cold as the steel walls surrounding you. "Impulsive. Unstable. You must be careful."

“She’s...” You paused, uncertain whether to defend Rio or stay silent. “She hasn’t hurt me.”

Agatha tilted her head, her dark hair catching the faint glow of the overhead light. For a moment, you saw something flicker in her expression—a mix of disappointment and... jealousy?

“Not yet,” she said finally. Her voice softened as she took a step closer. “But she will, darling. That’s what she does. She destroys everything she touches.”

Her hand reached out, brushing against your arm. You tried not to flinch, but your discomfort must have shown because Agatha’s lips curved into a smile, one that was meant to soothe but only made your skin crawl.

“You’re fragile,” she said softly, almost to herself. “You need someone to protect you.”

She didn’t need to finish the thought for you to know who she meant.

Hours later, when sleep evaded you, the sounds of the asylum echoed eerily in the darkness: the distant murmur of a night guard’s radio, the soft cries of another patient two rooms down, the clanging of a metal tray.

And beneath it all, a faint whisper—one growing louder.

When your door creaked open, panic shot through your veins. Your breath caught in your throat as Rio’s familiar silhouette slid into the room, her movements fluid and silent as a cat’s.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hissed, heart hammering against your ribs.

Rio smirked, leaning back against the wall as she crossed her arms. “Relax, sweetheart. Just thought you might want some company.”

She stepped closer, the dim light from the hallway casting shadows across her face. “She’s got her hooks in you, doesn’t she?” Rio asked, her voice soft yet charged. “Agatha. She’ll convince you that she’s the hero in this little story, but let me tell you something.”

Her hand tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her burning gaze.

“Heroes don’t exist in here,” Rio whispered. “Only survivors.”

Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes before she turned and slipped back into the shadows.

But her parting words stayed with you, an ominous echo of the tangled web ensnaring you.

The days in the asylum passed in a haze of monotony and growing dread, the line between reality and nightmare fraying at the edges. Every corner of the facility seemed to hum with a tension that you couldn’t shake, leaving your skin perpetually prickling as though you were being watched. And in truth, you always were.

Rio’s smoldering presence and Agatha’s calculated grip formed a prison within the asylum itself—a labyrinth with no way out.

But something new had begun to take root within you. Fear, yes, but also something more potent. A gnawing awareness of how deeply entangled you were in their obsession, like prey ensnared in a web woven by two hunters.

You weren’t sure how much longer you could stay sane.

The nightmares began subtly—flashes of Rio’s gaze boring into you, Agatha’s hand brushing yours with possessive care, rooms filled with distorted laughter or walls closing in. But they grew sharper over time.

One night, you startled awake, heart pounding, after dreaming of Agatha standing over you, her hands ghosting down your arms like you were a fragile doll she was piecing back together. Her whisper echoed in your ears even as you sat in the dark, wide awake.

“You’ll always belong to me.”

Even hours after waking, the weight of her imagined touch lingered, sending chills down your spine.

Waking hours weren’t much better. The asylum was never loud, but recently, every sound seemed sharper—every scrape of shoes on the tile, every hushed conversation. Were they talking about you? Watching you?

Rio and Agatha’s presence had grown suffocatingly frequent.

Rio slipped notes beneath your tray at breakfast, always crude but strangely charged: You looked lonely last night, or You don’t want her; you want me.

Then there was Agatha. She circled your mind like a vulture, appearing during therapy sessions, during nighttime "check-ins," and sometimes in your peripheral vision when you least expected her.

"Are you feeling better today?" she asked one morning as she approached your table, her voice dripping with concern but her gaze cool, calculating.

You stammered a reply, but her next words cut through your panic like a scalpel.

"I saw Rio talking to you again," Agatha said, her tone conversational but her meaning clear.

"She’s not dangerous," you found yourself saying before you realized it, almost defensively.

Agatha tilted her head, and something flashed in her expression—a flicker of annoyance, quickly replaced by calm control. She crouched beside you, her long fingers curling lightly around your wrist.

"I understand why you might think that," she murmured, her voice almost hypnotic. "But people like her... they thrive on breaking things. On breaking people."

Your pulse thudded beneath her touch, not from fear this time, but from a growing sense of suffocation.

“I don’t want you speaking with her anymore,” Agatha said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

But that wasn’t something you could promise. Rio wasn’t someone you could simply avoid. She found you wherever you went—pulling you into corners, whispering dangerous secrets in your ear.

One afternoon, she cornered you in the hallway leading to your cell, her smile sharp as she twirled a thread from her sleeve.

“You’re looking... jittery,” she teased, her tone half-amused but tinged with something darker. “Let me guess—Agatha’s been filling your head with her usual crap about me?”

You glared at her but didn’t answer, pushing past her, only for her hand to shoot out and snag your wrist.

“Hey, chica, I’m trying to help you,” she said, her tone dropping as she tugged you back, her eyes boring into yours. “Agatha’s got a nice little fantasy running in her head, and trust me—you don’t want to star in it.”

“What do you want, Rio?” you snapped, the weight of your fear and anger finally pushing words past your lips.

Her expression shifted then, her confidence faltering just slightly. “I don’t want her to own you,” Rio said softly. “I’m not lying when I say you’re special. Too special to let her twist you into something you’re not.”

Her hand loosened, and she stepped back, giving you space to move. But you hesitated, the words she left hanging in the air sinking deeper into your mind.

"Think about it, mi amor. You're not crazy. But staying here? It’ll make you crazy. Trust me—I know."

The cracks in your psyche widened that night, your head spinning as you tried to unpack everything that had been said to you. Agatha’s reassurances, Rio’s cryptic warnings—both felt like chains dragging you deeper into the asylum’s abyss.

But their words weren’t the worst of it.

What terrified you most was the growing sense that they were both right—and both wrong—at the same time.

You pressed yourself against the cold wall of your cell, desperate to reclaim the person you used to be before this nightmare. Your fingers traced the faint scratch marks etched into the walls, left by previous tenants whose desperation had taken different forms.

Would that be you someday?

When a sharp knock broke through the thick silence, you flinched violently.

Agatha entered a second later, her presence commanding as she shut the door behind her.

"You look tired," she said softly, her piercing eyes taking you in as though cataloging every crack in your facade. "Are the nightmares worse?"

You hesitated, and she took your silence as a confession.

“We’ll get through this, darling,” she murmured, sitting beside you on the narrow cot. The bed dipped under her weight, her closeness sending ripples of unease through you.

“You and I?” Agatha continued, her voice quiet but resolute. “We’re going to fix what they broke in you.”

You froze, realizing she didn’t see you as the person you were—but as something she wanted to mold, something broken that she could claim.

When morning came, you expected Agatha’s grip on you to relent, but instead, you found Rio waiting by your cell door, her wild grin sharper than usual.

“Morning, beautiful,” she said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Let’s skip breakfast, yeah?”

You shook your head. “I can’t—”

But before you could protest further, she grabbed your arm and pulled you down the hallway, her pace quick and assured.

“Rio, where are we going?” you hissed, panicking as you glanced around for guards.

She stopped abruptly, spinning to face you and gripping your shoulders with alarming intensity.

“Out.”

The way her eyes burned sent your head spinning.

“I’m getting you out of here.”

Her words, combined with Agatha’s controlling presence, twisted into a knot deep inside your chest. Was escape even possible? Was it what you wanted?

One thing was clear as Rio and Agatha loomed larger in your mind:

You were losing yourself.

_-_-_

Please don't forget to vote, reblog, and comment. Also, send in some request. 😉

[loucifersbitch]

Buck walks through the automatic doors on autopilot and freezes. It hits him then that the last time he stood here, he was meeting Tommy for Maddie and Chim’s wedding. He had stood almost in this very spot and kissed his boyfriend who was covered in soot after fighting a wildfire all night and most of the day.

Now his boyfriend is somewhere else in the hospital, and Buck can’t kiss him or touch him, and his hands are shaking, and he thinks he’s going to be sick.

He turns toward the nearest bathroom and makes it into the stall just in time. He hasn’t eaten yet today, so he’s only throwing up bile mixed with panic and regret, but it’s just as bad.

It’s Hen who finds him, which -

“Why are you in the men’s room?” he asks, his voice weak and still creaky.

“I thought you might need a medical professional.” When Buck just looks at her, she continues with a sigh, “We could hear you in the waiting room. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh.” That’s a little embarrassing. “Sorry. And thanks.”

He gratefully accepts the wet paper towel she hands him to wipe his face.

“Any news yet?”

“Not yet. They took him back for surgery, and it’ll probably be a few more hours before we hear. Bobby and Eddie are in the waiting room if there’s an update. Chim went to pick up Jee from daycare, but he’ll be back later with Maddie.”

Then she produces a water bottle from somewhere behind her.

“How long have I been in here?” Buck asks. Hen seems way too prepared for it to have been just a few minutes.

“About half an hour,” she says. “Actually closer to 45 minutes now.”

“Right.”

So time is still moving awkwardly. He can’t get his bearings. He feels untethered, like he’ll never be on solid ground again.

“Why don’t we get you up and out to a chair?” Hen asks gently. She’s not treating him with kid gloves, but she is being more careful than necessary.

He decides to accept it for the time being. Maybe he does need the softness in her voice and the kindness in her eyes right now.

“Yeah - yeah, that’s a good idea. Thanks, Hen.”

She smiles with something like relief and then stands, offering Buck a hand up.

The waiting room is blessedly empty save for their morose party. Buck tries to sit down, but before he can, Hen is pulling at his turnout coat, trying to yank it off his shoulders. She manhandles the coat off and tosses it to Eddie who adds it to the growing pile of coats on an unused chair in the corner. He’s too tired to fight it or question it, plus it was getting heavy with all of the rain still soaked into the fabric. 

After that, Hen leaves to call Karen, and Ravi goes to get food for them all at a little cafe just up the road that they’ve come to know well. 

Buck sits between Bobby and Eddie, almost a mockery of them standing at the crash site, holding him up. Best not to think about it.

Eddie holds a phone in his hands that Buck recognizes, but it’s not Eddie’s phone. The screen is cracked at the upper corner, spider-webbing its way diagonally down the length of the glass.

“Is that -?” He can’t even bring himself to ask.

“It’s Tommy’s, yeah. A nurse brought out the personal items he had on him a while ago. I was going to see if he has any family in his contacts, but I don’t know his passcode.”

“Oh,” Buck swallows roughly, “it’s um - it’s my birthday. But,” he continues before Eddie types the digits, “he doesn’t have any family in his contacts. At least, not anyone he would want here.”

“Ah,” is all Eddie says before handing the phone over to Buck. He pockets it and tries to think about anything other than his boyfriend a few rooms away getting his arm put back together.

He spends the next few minutes staring off into space thinking of nothing other than his boyfriend a few rooms away getting his arm put back together.

“He’s gonna be okay, Buck,” Eddie says into the heavy silence.

“Eddie’s right,” Bobby adds. “His arm will be fine, and the cuts and scrapes will heal. He’ll be back up in the sky before you know it.”

Buck feels his stomach churn threateningly at the thought, but he does his best to nod and smile. 

When Ravi returns with food, Buck can’t handle the smell, let alone eating anything. But he tries. He can hear Tommy’s low voice in his head warning, “Evan, you need to eat something,” and that convinces him more than Eddie’s prodding.

When Karen shows up along with Chimney and Maddie, Buck feels the need to pull her and his sister off to the side.

He tries to keep his voice steady as he says, “I didn’t get it. Before, I mean. I didn’t get what it felt like to be on this side.” He’s oddly proud his voice only cracked once.

Maddie grabs his hand. “Buck, you’ve been on this side a lot of times. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the 118 isn’t very good at staying out of the hospital.”

He lets out a wet laugh.

“I think he means on the worried partner side of things,” Karen says. “You’ve never had someone you’re in a relationship with get injured like this before. Is that right?”

“Y-yeah.” He chuckles sardonically. “When I saw the helicopter - and his - his hand hanging out the window - I thought - he wasn’t moving, y’know? It took us so long to find him. We were too late. I thought -”

“You thought you’d lost him,” Maddie supplies. He can only nod. “Yep, welcome to the Worried Partners Club.”

“It sucks, but it’s worth it,” Karen adds.

Later, when Athena gets off shift, she arrives at the hospital bearing coffee for everyone. Buck nods gratefully when she hands him one, and the understanding look in her eyes nearly sets him off again. Although, he thinks he might be too dehydrated for tears by now.

“Family of Thomas Kinard?” a voice calls from the doors leading to the OR.

Everyone looks up, but Buck is on his feet before the nurse finishes saying Tommy’s name. He feels people behind him, and the nurse’s eyes widen a bit at everyone gathering around, but Buck’s glad for them.

“He’s out of surgery. Everything went well. He’ll be in recovery for about an hour, but as soon as we get him in a room, you can see him.” 

The last part is directed toward Buck. Maybe he now looks like he’s part of the Worried Partners Club, but that’s fine. He’ll see Tommy soon. That’s what matters.

He catches the end of the nurse’s spiel as he says, “...still be under some sedation, so don’t expect much conversation.”

Buck nods, and the nurse leaves, and then Maddie is dragging him back to their chairs, handing him his coffee, and plopping down next to him to wait until they can see Tommy.

“He’s going to be insufferable,” Eddie says suddenly. He looks at Buck and says, “Remember that time he sprained his ankle while we were sparring? God, he was the worst patient.”

Buck genuinely laughs for the first time since they got the call. “He’s so stubborn, he wouldn’t even let me open doors for him. He just struggled to balance on his crutches so he could do it himself. He almost fell into the bushes twice outside the physical therapist’s office.”

Then everyone is laughing, a sense of lightness settling over Buck. He still doesn’t feel grounded or right necessarily, but laughing with his family helps.

They keep telling stories after that. Most of them are about Tommy, but some are stories or updates about kids or parents or a new recipe gone wrong. They all avoid the topic of work.

“Family of Thomas Kinard?” It’s a different nurse this time, but she doesn’t blink an eye at the number of family Tommy has. “He’s resting in his room. You can go back to see him, but we ask that you keep it to 4 or 5 people at a time. He’s still pretty groggy and probably won’t remember what happened right away, so keep conversation simple.” Then she turns and starts walking down the hallway, not waiting or looking back to see if anyone follows.

Buck grabs Chim and Eddie and gestures at Bobby to come, too. At the last second he grabs Hen’s hand, and the five of them hurry to catch up with the nurse together.

“Breathe, Buck,” Hen whispers.

He can’t. Not yet.

part 1

part 2

part 4

[starberry-cupcake]

twice now I've gone to panels or professional spaces with editors and other publishing professional colleagues where they will talk about AI because I want to know the best ways to protect work against it, especially everything that has to do with online security and web scraping safety for protecting content that exists solely online, and what I get instead is actual professionals telling me to my face that we should embrace it and use it, I feel like I'm in fucking ba sing se

growing up, teachers were all up in arms about kids using wikipedia for homework but now everyone's immediately ready to steal other people's work, send automatic messages they haven't even checked and turn themselves into a ghibli character even if they'd never watch a ghibli film in their lives, what the fuck is happening with everyone

[death-at-20k-volts]

On the subject of AI...

Okay so, I have been seeing more and more stuff related to AI-generated art recently so I’m gonna make my stance clear:

I am strongly against generative AI. I do not condone its usage personally, professionally, or in any other context.

More serious take under the cut, I am passionate about this subject:

So, first thing’s first, I’ll get my qualifications out of the way: BSc (Hons) Computer Science with a specialty in Artificial Intelligence systems and Data Security and Governance. I wrote my thesis, and did multiple R&D-style papers, on the subject. On the lower end I also have (I think the equivalent is an associate’s?) qualifications in art and IT systems. I’m not normally the type to pull the ‘well actually 🤓☝️’ card but, I'm laying some groundwork here to establish that I am heavily involved in the fields this subject relates to, both academically and professionally.

So what is 'AI' in this context?

Nowadays when someone says ‘AI’, they’re most likely talking about Generative Artificial Intelligence – it’s a subtype of AI system that is used, primarily, to produce images, text, videos, and other media formats (thus, generative). 

By this point, we’ve all heard of the likes of ChatGPT, Midjourney, etc – you get the idea. These are generative AI systems used to create the above mentioned content types. 

Now, you might be inclined to think things such as:

‘Well, isn’t that a good thing? Creating stuff just got a whole lot easier!’ 

‘I struggle to draw [for xyz reason], so this is a really useful tool’

‘I’m not an artist, so it’s nice to be able to have something that makes things how I want them to look’

No, it’s not a good thing, and I’ll tell you exactly why.

-------------------------------------------------

What makes genAI so bad?

There’s a few reasons that slate AI as condemnable, and I’ll do my best to cover them here as concisely as I reasonably can. Some of these issues are, admittedly, hypothetical in nature – the fact of the matter is, this is a technology that has come to rise faster than people and legislature (law) can even keep up with. 

Stealing Is Bad, M’kay?

Now you’re probably thinking, hold on, where does theft come into this? So, allow me to explain.

Generative AI systems are able to output the things that they do because first and foremost, they’re ‘trained’: fed lots and lots of data, so that when it’s queried with specific parameters, the result is media generated to specification. Most people understand this bit – I mean, a lot of us have screwed around with ChatGPT once or twice. I won't lie and say I haven't, because I have. Mainly for research purposes, but still. (The above is a massive simplification of the matter, because I ain't here to teach you at a university level)

Now, give some thought to where exactly that training data comes from. 

Typically, this data is sourced from the web; droves of information are systematically scraped from just about every publicly available domain available on the internet, whether that be photographs someone took, art, music, writing…the list goes on. Now, I’ll underline the core of this issue nice and clearly so you get the point I’m making:

It’s not your work.

Nor does it belong to the people responsible for these systems; untold numbers of people have had their content - potentially personal content, copyrighted content - taken and used for data training. Think about it – one person having their stuff stolen and reused is bad, right? Now imagine you’ve got a whole bunch of someones who are having their stuff taken, likely without them even knowing about it, and well – that’s, obviously, very bad. Which sets up a great segue into the next point:

Potential Legislation Issues

For the sake of readability, I’ll try not to dive too deep into legalese here. In short – because of the inherent nature of genAI (that is, the taking-and-using of potentially private and licensed material), there may come a time where this poses a very real legal issue in terms of usage rights.

At the time of writing, legislation hasn’t caught up – there aren't any ratified laws that state how, and where, big AI systems such as ChatGPT can and cannot source training data. Many arguments could be made that the scope and nature of these systems practically divorces generated content from its source material, however many do not agree with this sentiment; in fact, there have been some instances of people seeking legal action due to perceived copyright infringement and material reuse without fair compensation.

It might not be in violation of laws on paper right now, but it certainly violates the spirit of these laws – laws that are designed to protect the works of creatives the world over. 

AI Is Trash, And It’s Getting Trashier

Woah woah woah, I thought this was a factual document, not an opinion piece!

Fair. I’d be a liar if I said it wasn’t partly rooted in opinion, but here’s the fact: genAI is, objectively, getting worse. I could get really technical with the why portion, but I’m not rewriting my thesis here, so I’ll put it as simply as possible:

AI gets trained on Internet Stuff. AI is dubiously correct at best because of how it aggregates data (that is, from everywhere, even the factually-incorrect places)

People use AI to make stuff. They take this stuff at face value, and they don’t sanity check it against actual trusted sources of information (or a dictionary. Or an anatomy textbook)

People put that stuff back on the internet, be it in the form of images, written statements, "artwork", etc

Loop back to step 1

In the field of Artificial Intelligence this is sometimes called a runaway feedback loop: it’s the mother of all feedback loops that results in aggregated information getting more and more horrifically incorrect, inaccurate, and poorly put-together over time. Everything from facts to grammar, to that poor anime character’s sixth and seventh fingers – nothing gets spared, because there comes a point where these systems are being trained on their own outputs.

I somewhat affectionately refer to this as ‘informational inbreeding’; it is becoming the pug of the digital landscape, buggled eyes and all.

Now I will note, runaway feedback loops are typically referencing algorithmic bias - but if I'm being honest, it's an apt descriptor for what's happening here too.

This trend will, inevitably, continue to get worse over time; the prevalence of AI generated media is so commonplace now that it’s unavoidable – that these systems are going to be eating their own tails until they break. 

-------------------------------------------------

But I can’t draw/write! What am I supposed to do?

The age-old struggle – myself and many others sympathize, we really do. Maybe you struggle to come up with ideas, or to put your thoughts to paper cohesively, or drawing and writing is just something you’ve never really taken the time to develop before, but you’re really eager to make a start for yourself.

Maybe, like many of us including myself, you have disabilities that limit your mobility, dexterity, cognition, etc. Not your fault, obviously – it can make stuff difficult! It really can! And it can be really demoralizing to feel as though you're limited or being held back by something you can't help.

Here’s the thing, though:

It’s not an excuse, and it won’t make you a good artist.

The very artists you may or may not look up to got as good as they did by practicing. We all started somewhere, and being honest, that somewhere is something we’d cringe at if we had to look back at it for more than five minutes. I know I do. But in the context of a genAI-dominated internet nowadays, it's still something wonderfully human.

There are also many, many artists across history and time with all manner of disabilities, from chronic pain to paralysis, who still create. No two disabilities are the same, a fact I am well aware of, but there is ample proof that sheer human tenacity is a powerful tool in and of itself.

Or, put more bluntly and somewhat callously: you are not a unique case. You are not in some special category that justifies this particular brand of laziness, and your difficulties and struggles aren't license to take things that aren't yours.

The only way you’re going to create successfully? Is by actually creating things yourself. ‘Asking ChatGPT’ to spit out a writing piece for you is not writing, and you are not a writer for doing so. Using Midjourney or whatever to generate you a picture does not make you an artist. You are only doing yourself a disservice by relying on these tools.

I'll probably add more to this in time, thoughts are hard and I'm tired.

[0viraptoraskblog]

so for the sake of a fic im writing (or trying to, at least) i have Un Question:

what do you think the logistics are like behind fox's staff? like how would he scout people out first of all, and second of all keep them from just going to the police? i'm sure that he tries to keep the team as small as possible but also there's a lot of roles to be filled. surely a lot of cross training, but that gets dicey when you get into the fact that he needs to have Somebody with medical knowledge. also, particularly curious about how he supposedly managed to get mc in with an eye specialist. do you think he was even telling the truth about that? because basic field medic training is one thing but i struggle to imagine him having an opthamologist on hand.

thank you sm in advance for answering!! -🎀🐭

Well, a lot of it comes through the dark web.

Fox’s streaming platform, gore forums, and online sales platforms are all very illegal. He definitely used secret browsers and protections to run his business away from the eyes of ‘normal’ people. Not just anyone can access those sites. I think he interacts with a lot of people on such forums, both to build business and get a better knowledge of his current audience. If he’s known a certain user for a long time, and they have an eagerness to help out (hasn’t everyone thought of working with their favorite streamer once or twice?) he might reach out and offer them a job. Now remember, he’s very good with this secret tech— and he’d scrape the internet, both regular and dark, to give them a thorough background check first.

However, think of this; Fox has a huge audience. Strade had one back then, too. There’s a lot of people in the market for this dark kind of work. I’m sure some of those forums or secret websites link Ren to potential hires. He may have scouted for a specific surgeon who offers their services there— they do professional work illegally, but get paid twice the price of a normal hospital. I assume that’s where Ren got the eye specialist. (He’s also a big name around that side of the internet, so I’m sure any doctor who knows him wouldn’t hesitate to take his business.) I also doubt he was lying— if he didn’t want it fixed properly, he wouldn’t have bothered to have it fixed at all.

I believe he has trauma medics, typical surgeons, and maybe a pharmacist that work for him permanently, but any other specialist is a short term hire. Like you said, his team needs to be closely knit to function without *issues*, so he may only have one of each of those. It can’t be too small either, so he can maintain power and cooperation. There’s a balance.

That’s just my headcanon :)

[angellurgy2]

Hiveship

hii! this is the 1st and 2nd chapter of my new story, as a little show of whats to come when i make it a full-length book.

cw for bug rape but like, its also just an introduction to deeper non/sexual ways the bugs will destroy this girl's soul. you'll see!

i'd appreciate if people checked this out/gassed it up because i've worked reallyyy hard on this for a bit ^-^

CHAPTER 1

A live wire sparks as loretta reaches a gloved claw inside the open electrical box, her digits blunted by her heavily plated and padded, alabaster white cosmonaut suit. she roots around the active electricity, scraping out chunks of the greenish-brown sludge growing in its crevices- the same mysterious viscous slime that’s been popping up in parts across her starship over and over the past few weeks. her theories ranged from an excremetal expulsion of an unidentified space object, to some disgraceful cosmonaut’s trash finding its way into her ship’s vents.

she clicks the button for the analyzing tool of her protective visor, closely examining the fluid. long thin wires splay across all sections of the large junction, leaving burning hot indents in the thick substances that feel like way too much of a fire risk. looking at the wires, spread out in patterned parallels like gigantic spider-webs, an anxious tinge of fear strikes her. don’t fall in, don’t get caught- robots don’t need any more prey. not that you’re prey. you aren’t.

she flicks her visor back off, worried her sweat might fog up the the visor, and continues swiping the rest of the gunk into a bin.

all clean, she fixes the fuses back into place before immediately making her way back over to the equipment corridor to hang up her suit. on the way she passes vibrant posters of mechanical cross-section diagrams, detailed anatomy drawings of every variety of species she could scavenge, and historical propaganda posters. it was a nice splash of existence inside a clinical minimalist coating. 

lounging in the cabin suite on her sofa, she flips her state-provided entertainment console to the galactic news. on-screen a suited, pristine looking woman takes the centre stage behind a stretched out desk. her voice is calm and analytical, with a hint of soft sympathy that can’t be hidden no matter how hard of a professional facade they must put on.

“News from the pandora planets have finally reached the internal core, revealing devastating effects of the latest assault campaign from the exoskeletal hives, multiple colonies’ messengers have reported complete razing of ground and sub-ground infrastructure, with several not appearing for the census at all. the URSS military and all commune bioships have retreated back to pantheon-V for rehabitation before a pandora counter-takeover can be attempted.”

Loretta shudders. the exoskeletals have been advancing deeper into URSS territory much faster than ever before, the fact that the state hasn’t been able to put a stop to it—and that the threat has only gotten more aggressive—makes sweat begin to pour down her head. if she was doing a term with the forces or part of a commune science crew she’d probably be worried for her life right now. thankfully, her ship was currently flying safely in one of the middle systems, relaxing in orbit of an abandoned desert world after recently coming back from a call of excursion to the outer worlds. she always enjoyed the quiet of minimal space travel and the utter lack of civilization when she gazed down upon a world, so this has been her favourite spot to reside for a long while. from the cabin module’s glass wall she can see such stark vistas of sandy mountain ranges, demarcating the most beautiful fields of gigantic outstretching spiny cactus.

with a loud buzz the tv automatically switches to the nightly Sallite news segment, where they broadcast the most important of state propaganda to every television set at 8pm local time. with an exasperated sigh she turns the volume all the way down to 1, takes off her grey tank, and throws herself into her cushioney bed. a switch on the wall next to the alloy headboard turns on the room’s surround sound to a soft pitter of forested rainfall, and she falls asleep in a matter of seconds.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Loretta awakes to the foreign sound of a sloppy wriggling near the floor by the end of her bed. jerking upright, she quickly slides into the suit boots she had laid at the side of her bed, strapping them tight, and moves to examine the intruder. 

a pulsating green slime slides itself across the floor, leaving a small trail of slightly transparent lime goo behind it. loretta kneels to look at it closer. she could swear it’s looking right back at her- though without any obvious eyes or features of its own. it excretes another loud squelching sound and fires off a copper-smelling mist around it, some of which sprays directly into loretta’s face causing her to wince and tear up at the dense cloud of smell. she reflexively slams her booted heel down into the creature, stomping through its gelatinous body.

she attempts to swiftly scrape the thing off her heel,, but the flattened slime spreads to encase her entire boot before she can even look down at it. when she does, she sees sticky lime green half-translucent goo coating the suit metal like adhesive, excreting a slight burning odour. loretta throws her leg around trying to eject the subject, but only manages to trip over herself, tumbling to the thick panelled floor with a resounding thud. 

on her back she watches with wide terrified eyes as the slime continues to slowly expand up her limb. it should be stretching itself out fully by now, but it seems to have an infinite amount of mass to express over her. some kind of anomalous entity from deep space? but how would it have gotten this deep into the middle systems? a new wormhole would’ve been reported immediately, and the nearest systems are all too well-inhabited. the gears turn in her head, clearly rusted over, struggling to think of a potential scientific hypothesis. by the time she breaks out of her clouded monologue and thinks to stop analyzing, the slime has already subsumed her entire left leg, grasping spreading tiny green tendrils grappling for the next part, which is fully uncovered by the comforting protection of the URSS engineer corps. she struggles to force herself away by clawing into the floor, but the slime seems to have extra weight to pin her leg down. such a little creature, overpowering her so easily- it must be alien. she doesn’t stop struggling even if it pins her utterly. if she could just get to the corner and grab her piece she could-

her scrabbling eyes find themselves staring at the cabin’s ceiling vent. a thick bile-like grey sludge seeps down from the cracks, forcing her to hurry. loretta shoves her hand into the green slime against her better judgement, trying to peel it off like one of her mother’s gelatin molds. her hands try to slide underneath it but they find themselves struggling to push against an unmovable solid, far away from the gravyesque consistency it had before. then she feels her legs, or rather, feels the lack of feeling of her legs. when she tries to move them, she cant even muster a shake, lower half pinned to the floor, not even pins or needles remaining. it doesn’t stop her relentless pushing and attempts to pull herself out by her arms, but she might as well be an amputee at this point. like one of those UOA prisoners of war from back in the day, laser neutered to be nothing but working hands for the Authority’s machines.

unable to get away from the oncoming deluge, lorreta realizes it must be relent or die. and so she does, shutting her eyes tight and curling her lips inward together like the anti-parasitites’ studies have taught her. though this wasn’t the typical annalidesque parasite commonly found in the outer cosmos, or a parasite at all for all she knows, it’s the best her dizzy mind can handle. and as she feels the sludge’s drip touch down on her estrogenated skin, it succeeds in helping stop it from flowing inside her eyes. she can feel it coat the skin tight, like a face mask but smelling of wood and suffocating and lively probing at her pores, blocking her vision black with its opaque body.

the sludge now dispensed, loretta senses a chance and attempts to pry the mask off of her. blindly groping for a free spot by her neck and sliding her unkempt nails under it and into the disgusting goo. it feels like a cadaver from anatomy class under her fingers, diving into the fat and peeling away the outer layer. but this corpse has undergone rigor mortis, and loretta’s attempts to peel it off go only slightly better than with the green thing, lifting an inch before it slaps itself back on even tighter. her second attempt goes even worse, her arms starting to feel numb and anaesthetized. she lifts her arms to fight but she cant feel the texture of what she touches anymore, and then the viral limpness travels to the rest of her motor function, and they flop uselessly at her sides. no part of her body responding to her brains frenzied orders to move, the most she can do is flail inside.

she pictures Andromeda-ZE in her mind’s eye, emotionally travelling to the place she spent most her childhood. she’s running through the market, the most well-known place in the capital, excitedly waving at family friends and commune teachers like she’s a kid again, so happy, so free, so ignorant. red and yellow and orange colours shine bright on the market stalls, sand and wood structures stand beautifully tall around her, everything is even more beautiful than it was when she was young. the wind on her cheeks as she runs makes her glow with a safety she doesn’t feel in the atmospheric void in space. not far ahead she spots her unit hut, and ramps up her speed. in a minute of invigorating sprint, she makes it to the large aspen door, knocking 5 times. she hears several light footsteps trot up and bounces with excitement. the door slowly creeps open… 

and a hulking nurse bug towers over her. its mandibles chitter, the egg sack on its back wiggles, and its claws rub together in front of its chest. she looks into the creature’s eyes and sees a thousand mirrors staring back at her. she screams muffled into the slime gag, jolting away from the colour behind her eyelids, and back into the void in front of them. instead of trying to push inside like loretta assumed, the sludge begins to creep into the part of her eye socket above her lids, pushing with prying hair-like digits. her heart cramps, and she can feel her heavy perspiration being immediately absorbed by the material the second it drips.  she doesn’t want to close her eyes, doesn’t want to see the bugs that close again- the spindling inner legs, the slimey chitin, vision of swarms of exoskeletals charging her squad flash through her, all she wants to do is scream but all it does is wear out the last muscles she can work. but she can’t stop, she wails banshily, reverberating in her own skulll. and then she can’t manage to hold her eyes open any longer.

the jointed arthropod returns, fully subsuming her soul. 

“it’s okay, sweet darling Lore, we are here now” it speaks in her mothers voice. sweet and soothing.

CHAPTER 2

loretta wakes up in a stasis vat, her body floating in air like oil. green biofluid drenches her skin, manufactured nutrients flooding her organs, keeping her fed and stable. she smiles, thinking back to her first spacewalk, bounding into the open cosmos with footless steps. she kicks her foot up, sending herself into an airy backflip. her mouth opens on its own and takes in a load of the fluid. it tastes like the earth pineapples her mothers would trade for on her birthdays. she has to figure out what this is when she’s out of here. and by the looks of her motor functions, she’ll be out of this in no time. 

* * *

she awakes groggily inside of another vat. there’s no more fluid, but something similar sticks to every inch of her skin. the walls of steel have turned into a coffinesque cocoon, fleshy and aboreal brown and wriggling with her movements. yet as she attempts to push herself backwards, her hands still find themselves scraping cold metal. she sees how some light manages to seep through the cracks of the chitinous chamber, and prods at the squishy folds where the tiny glowing rays strike, poking through an inch or two of foreign flesh before her fingertips feel air. bio vat? or some sort of.. metamorphosis chamber? she can’t remember how she got here, or when she signed up for such a procedure. she needs to find someone before she gets stuck. she lifts her moist lips to one of the little holes and screams out a plea for help. she manages to fit another finger out, and begins trying to spread open the breach when she’s stopped by someone’s cold fingers pulling hers. one of the scientists, or guards? 

the person outside pulls on loretta’s hand hard and she feels her light body raise up to the roof of her confines. despite her reaching the walls, they keep going, tugging forcing painful friction between her bare limbs and the meaty hide. in a few short, supernatural pulls she is burst through the sac entirely, getting to see chunks of what appears to be sinew and slime splattering the surroundings as she flies through antigravital space and crashes hard into a familiar wall.

HISSSSSSSTHH

innumerous spindly brown limbs bringing fading memories of phasmid anatomy charts stretch out across the polished floor and walls now brutally scattered with keepsake and furniture debris, looking like abstract blobs in loretta’s slime coated vision. blobs which are constantly being absorbed upwards into the air by twitchy movements. loretta grasps at the wall behind her, pulling herself away from the enormous creature. 

slamming into the far wall, she attempts to reach for where her dresser should be, where her trusty sidearm should be awaiting its imminent retrieval. then she remembers the lack of gravity. 

it was a stupid idea to make a grav switch so accessible. she never even uses it, and humans are the only creature out in this abyss who are weak to its pull. stupid stupid stupid. she tries to look for it in the debris but can’t make it out through all the other white and grey blobs. 

in the room, a few brown splotches stand out, utterly foreign to the ship’s shade-based palette. she stares closer, and even more seem to appear. the black space where the open door leads to dark corriders begins spewing them  out en masse until at least two dozen of them scatter across the floors walls and ceiling of the cabin, staring right back into her with beady pinpricked eyes. 

a bug pounces, its thin limbs pinning loretta hard. the hair on its tarsi scrape across her bare arms jolting goosebumps up her entire body. its membranal underside presses up close, making her shake with unease as its squishy segmented body rubs against her and coats her with an inky discharge well familiar to her after multiple campaigns. 

click, click, click, click. clinking mandibles together, like a hungry and petulant child. antennae rub against her ears, just then noticing their dulling by a xenotic wax substance. yet the vile hissing of a group of specially angered freaks still deafens. 

searing pain transports into her flesh. she screams but a sludgey backup in her windpipe stops everything but the vibration. loretta looks down at the thick brown apical claw stuck inches deep in her side. a gaping void begins a slow seeping of crimson.  another of the blobs quickly dashes into her view, bursting into definition as it pops up at the wound’s side. the same black liquid that drapes over her skin begins to leak out of its open mouth-thing, mixing and diluting the blood until the cut is naught but a thick black wall subsuming a portion of her outer thigh. 

she looks forward again as a twinge of neck pain insults her for forgetting herself, and sees the first roach reaching its body upwards. a yonic hole in its abdomen begins to slowly invert, while a large black tendril reaches out of the now-extremity and fluidly twirls itself around loretta’s leg, dripping ichor all the way.

she’d never gotten this close to one of the breeders before, to the point she didn’t even recognize their exotype until now. as far as she knew, they stayed deep inside the tunneled grounds of the hive worlds, fucking like lagomorphs to appease their queens and ever-outbreed the URSS’s onslaughts. and yet, here they are.

the appendage flicks into loretta’s belly, proding at and pushing inside her navel cavity. it feels almost like she’s being licked by a pet dog, or it would if it wasn’t by a fucking bug. the creature tries to push forward past the inch-deep space and is swiftly yanked back in turn, reaching the end of its rope. loretta sighs. if they can’t even reach her then the worst they could probably do is-

the tentacle prods at a lower place before a concept can reach her nerves. a deserted, forgotten plateau, a space too human for her to accept. sliding over a smooth ravine, wet shocks drive up her legs. coiling atrocity digs into her malleable dirt like the hills in pandora. she screams like she imagines it must. though the terror speaks in soft, writhing texture, and not pain. pandora and i, sister bodies- desecrated in twain.

she turns her head to the room’s one window. beyond the hexagonal plasteel frame, one of the last things held up through the chaos, halcyon skies stretch out for infinity- vistas of beautiful achromatic calm broken only by dots of terrestrial colour. an anaerobic dead zone, where nothing except calm would subsume her. devour her. she yearns to feel that cold blanket take her now. she dreams of the window bursting open, space gaining pressure the glass wasn’t ready for, and ripping them all out with it. she dreams of mom bursting through the door gun in hand. she dreams of simply disappearing from all being. 

from above her head slithers another pair of mandible and trio of forceps, digging into her budding chest. a sparse pink miasma sprays across her vision, and she’s stumbled out of her wonder by a furious coughing fit rising in her trachea, and finally taking off some of the adhesive coating her throat alongside it. she tries to look back outside and the claws digging deeper just force her gaze right back. her eyes glaze over with water and, unable to wipe the sleeves away, it drowns her. it fills her mouth until her muscles strain, spread taught like an epithelial fingertrap. she cant help but cough more, painfully clenching on the foreign object sliding deeper inside using her windpipe as a transistor to her weak points.

beige meat squishes up against her face, phantom sensations of a man’s stomach thrusting. it should never have been able to get more evil than that. how did they put human’s cruelty into animals, was it taught? more inches of squishish meat force the thought from her shrouded head. her tears taste like ink. maybe they like it that way.

Lorettas’s hull stretches with fullness and terror. she cant see it, but she can feel it bulging her front extremitously. it feels like the two tendrils will soon meet in the middle. she shudders in fear and feels them swirl inside her as punishment. 

she feels a slight relent, and her thoughts finally losing their haze. the creatures in front of her thrust backwards through the air, and the twisting coiling tentacles whorl their way out like a pullcord. again she has to feel the thing climb her hole, leaving a painful space where there used to be nothing, unable to go back to nothing. it is ashamed and sobbing in it’s own. what a bipolar old lady you are, where is your rage?

his voice forces itself inside of her. look what you’ve done. ruined and irreparable. you must’ve loved it. you and your little bug fascination. maybe if you didn’t spend your time with abominations, you wouldn’t have become one. 

she screams back. it’s not too late, i don’t love them. he’ll never control me again, i’ve carved so much into the world, i won’t let myself be belittled. you’re smart, they’re miniscule- a surprise assault shows their utter lack of strength. i’ll kill them all if i have to. i’ll prove it, i will.

she tries to open her eyes again and sees, stained by pink clouds floating in her sclera, a huge mutated insectoid towering behind the others. a large dynastinaen horn displays ignorant ideas of its strength above its excitedly quivering mandibles. or perhaps the exoskeletals have no need for concepts of pride or egotism. perhaps hive mentality’s destroyal of the individual will always grant them an advantage. no thought of the victim- evil little creatures. no different than the evil of the Authority. no different than-

two blunt black mandibles thrust into her chest. the wind is crushed from her body before she can realize what’s happening. she is too dazed to look at the impact. her deflated cadaver is thrusted into the air, and carried,

her vision bobs up and down as swift twig limbs drag her forth without thought. station windows fly past her, blobs vaguely looking like her favourite posters lay scattered and sliced in pieces, slime staining them irreparable as it coats the floor. does their cruelty know no limits? was the destruction of her ship and her spirit not enough? the destruction of her people? will anything sway their pure evil? she wants to cry, but she’s already using all the tears her body can muster. 

black begins to gorge itself on the halls, the chunky whirring of automatic doors blares in her ears drowning out the chattering sounds of dozens of limbs. the hydraulics were a deeply familiar sound, one she had always cherished hearing. it felt like a reminder of the spacecraft’s life, always interacting to her existence, responding in kind noise whenever loretta’d root around fixing her insides. it was a comforting relationship, wonderful in its unconditionality.

now, her beautiful partner screamed red with anger. they destroyed her entrance too. the airlocks outer seal is burst open with what could fairly be assumed to be anti-ship cannons, if not for the claw marks and acid tainting it all. she looks through the inner seal, into the void where death surely awaits, her body has been so painfully torn and remade, that she can’t make herself put up a single limb to fight at the end. she imagines a blaster in her hand, and clenches its handle tight. then she opens her eyes, and her fingers havent moved an inch. 

then her face meets cold surface, jagged. then the green drapes grab onto her skin again. then her blood mixes with the green and turns the colour to the same rust she smelled in the air at the start. then she feels the perfectly held-at-average air of her beloved spaceship turn into cold freezing anguish of the outside. then she feels her body turn to nothing. then, she feels nothing at all.

[nayziiz]

Reckless | CS55

Summary: Via finds herself caught up in office politics and encounters Carlos Sainz Jr., the intimidating son of her boss. Despite her initial reluctance, she is drawn into a web of intrigue surrounding the Sainz family and their business empire. As tensions rise and secrets unravel, Via and Carlos grapple with professional challenges, personal relationships, and the allure of forbidden romance. Via must navigate the complexities of power, ambition, and desire, ultimately confronting difficult truths about those around her in a world where appearances can be deceiving and loyalties tested.

Warning: Violence, blood, alcohol, smut, fluff, guns

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x OC (Via Driscoll) - appearances from other drivers

Masterlist

Chapter 1

The bleak London sky seemed to reflect Via's mood as she sat in her office, the persistent rain tapping against the window panes like an incessant reminder of her dissatisfaction. She longed for the comfort of her home, envisioning herself cocooned in her favourite pyjamas, a bowl of popcorn in hand, escaping into the world of a movie. But duty called, and she found herself tethered to her desk, the glow of her computer screen casting a harsh light on her weary face.

Via's gaze drifted from her monitor to the expansive windows that framed her workspace, offering a panoramic view of the dreary cityscape below. The rain streaked down the glass in rivulets, distorting the already dismal scene outside. With a sigh, she swirled her chair to face the window, mesmerised by the hypnotic dance of the raindrops.

Her office, part of the executive suite, was a realm of corporate austerity softened only by the occasional flourish of personalization. Across from her was Eleanor's desk, a colleague whose meticulously organised desk offered a stark contrast to Via's own desk, cluttered with documents and folders. Beyond them lay the hushed confines of the boardroom, its sleek furnishings a testament to the gravity of the decisions made within its walls. And nestled at the heart of it all, concealed behind a frosted glass door, was the sanctum of the CEO, a figure whose presence loomed over the entire floor.

The executive suite was a realm unto itself, delineated from the rest of the office floor by imposing frosted glass panels. These barriers, both physical and metaphorical, served as a symbolic boundary between the realm of power and influence and the humbler domains of the rank and file.

As the sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room, Via instinctively recoiled, her chair scraping against the floor as she sought refuge closer to her desk. The starkness of her workspace mirrored the dreary weather outside, save for a solitary splash of colour—a bright red ribbon adorning her computer monitor, a token of whimsy amidst the monochrome.

Before Via could fully regain her composure, the jarring chime of a message tone shattered the silence, dragging her attention back to the task at hand. With a resigned sigh, she dove back into her work, sifting through the influx of emails that clamoured for her attention. Among them, a cluster of documents awaited Julia's scrutiny, prompting Via to spring into action.

With a sense of urgency gnawing at her, Via swiftly printed out the documents, the whirring of the printer adding a discordant rhythm to the otherwise hushed ambiance of the office. Clutching the papers in hand, she hastened down the main passageway, her footsteps echoing off the sterile tiles with each resounding click of her heels.

Despite her distaste for the clamour her heels inevitably caused, Via pressed on, her posture rigid and purposeful as she navigated the familiar corridors. Straightening her navy blue pencil skirt and smoothing down the crisp lines of her pearly white blouse, she maintained a facade of professionalism, unwilling to betray any hint of vulnerability to the world around her.

As she finally approached Julia's desk, Via's pulse quickened with a mixture of apprehension and determination. With each step, she drew closer to the epicentre of the office's bustling activity, her resolve unyielding even in the face of the tempest raging both outside and within.

“Hey, Jules.” Via greeted Julia with a warm smile, hoping to inject a bit of brightness into the weary atmosphere.

“Hi, Via.” Julia replied, her voice laden with fatigue, betraying the toll that the relentless demands of their profession had taken on her.

“I have some paperwork Eleanor wants you to go over. Mostly just details for the upcoming gala.” Via nodded sympathetically as she approached, presenting the stack of paperwork she had carried with her. 

Julia's shoulders slumped slightly at the mention of more work, her sigh echoing the sentiment shared by many in their line of work.

“The work never ends, does it?” She lamented, a weariness evident in her tone as she prepared to delve once more into the endless stream of tasks that awaited her.

“Sadly, no.” Via echoed with a resigned sigh, her own weariness mirroring Julia's.

“I've actually been meaning to call you over.” Julia interjected, her tired gaze flicking between Via and the documents she held.

“Yeah?” Via prompted, sensing there was more to Julia's invitation.

“Eleanor mentioned that Mr. Sainz wants you in the quarterly meeting tomorrow morning.” Julia explained, her voice tinged with a hint of intrigue as she relayed the information. Via's curiosity piqued at the unexpected news.

“Did she say why?” She inquired, her mind already racing with possibilities as she awaited Julia's response.

“I assume he wants to transfer some of Eleanor's workload to you. Which is both good and bad.” Julia speculated with a nonchalant shrug, acknowledging the mixed implications of such a directive. Via frowned slightly, her thoughts swirling with the implications of the impending meeting.

“She hasn't mentioned anything to me yet.” She murmured, her mind already strategizing how to navigate the potential changes.

“Anyway, listen.” Julia continued, steering the conversation toward more immediate concerns. “There have been a few big projects happening and we need to update the website. Would you mind going through some of our most recent projects and writing up some articles on them?”

Via's expression brightened at the prospect of a new task, eager to immerse herself in a creative endeavour amidst the routine of administrative duties.

“Sure, with pleasure.” She replied, enthusiasm infusing her words as she welcomed the opportunity to breathe life into the neglected facets of their online presence.

“Great! It's just we haven't focused on our website in ages-” Julia began, her words trailing off as she glanced around the bustling office, a silent acknowledgment of the perpetual whirlwind of activity that often left such tasks relegated to the back burner.

Julia's abrupt silence drew Via's attention, and she followed her gaze to the elevator lobby, where four figures stood, three of them familiar: Mr. Sainz, the imposing CEO; Eleanor, his steadfast executive assistant; and Paul, their ever-watchful bodyguard. But it was the fourth man who captured Via's curiosity, his dark chocolate brown hair a stark contrast to the sleek professionalism of the others.

As he turned to face them, Via's breath caught in her throat. The resemblance was uncanny—a younger version of Mr. Sainz himself, yet with a vitality and energy that set him apart.

“Who is that?” Via whispered, her voice barely above a murmur, her eyes fixed on the enigmatic newcomer.

“Carlos Sainz Jr.” Julia replied in hushed tones, her expression betraying a mixture of awe and trepidation at the unexpected arrival of the CEO's son.

As Carlos Sainz Jr. passed by Via and Julia, his impeccably tailored suit accentuating his lean physique, Via found herself momentarily speechless, her gaze lingering on him as he disappeared into the executive suite alongside his father and the others. A palpable tension hung in the air, an eerie quietness enveloping the office as everyone processed the unexpected encounter.

“How come this is the first time I've seen him?” Via queried, her curiosity piqued by the sudden appearance of Mr. Sainz's son.

Julia hesitated for a moment before responding, her voice tinged with a hint of apprehension. 

“He hasn't been involved with the family business. Neither has Blanca nor Ana, his sisters.”

“Why not?” Via pressed, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“It's complicated.” Julia muttered cryptically, her eyes darting around as if searching for eavesdroppers. “He only ever brings trouble when he's around.”

Via nodded slowly, absorbing Julia's words as she contemplated the implications of Carlos Sainz Jr.'s presence and the enigmatic aura that seemed to surround him.

Via's frown deepened as she watched Carlos Sainz Jr. lean casually against her desk, engrossed in conversation with his father and Eleanor. Despite the distance separating them, Via felt the weight of his gaze like a tangible presence, causing a shiver to run down her spine. She averted her eyes, the intensity of their brief connection unsettling her.

Even after breaking eye contact, Via couldn't shake the sensation of being watched. It was as if Carlos Sainz Jr.'s dark brown eyes had left an indelible mark on her consciousness, their magnetic pull impossible to resist.

A few moments later, the trio retreated into Mr. Sainz's office, the heavy door closing behind them with a finality that left Via feeling strangely bereft. She shook off the lingering unease, burying herself in her work as she tried to banish thoughts of Carlos Sainz Jr. and the inexplicable hold he seemed to have over her.

“I suggest you get back to work, Via.” Julia suggested, her tone gently nudging Via back into focus.

Via nodded in agreement, acknowledging the need to redirect her attention to the tasks at hand. With a determined resolve, she made her way back to her desk, the weight of Julia's words lingering in the air.

As Via settled behind her desk, poised to begin her work on the website articles, the shrill ring of her landline shattered the quietude of the executive suite. Startled, she reached for the receiver, her heart rate quickening with anticipation.

“This is Olivia Driscoll. How may I assist?” Via answered, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her chest.

“There is a black and a blue folder on my desk. Please bring them to me.” Eleanor's voice commanded, brusque and to the point, before the line went dead.

Via's brow furrowed in confusion at the unexpected request, but she wasted no time in complying. With a sense of purpose, she rose from her desk, her footsteps echoing in the hushed confines of the office as she made her way to Eleanor's domain, the folders clutched tightly in her grasp.

Via carefully selected the two folders from Eleanor's desk, ensuring she didn't overlook any additional blue or black folders that might have been hiding in plain sight. Satisfied with her choices, she proceeded to Mr. Sainz's office, her footsteps measured and deliberate as she approached the frosted glass door.

Pausing briefly, Via knocked three times, a customary gesture to announce her presence before entering. She knew that Eleanor was expecting her, but she still felt a twinge of nervousness as she awaited permission to step inside.

With a click, the door swung open, granting Via access to the inner sanctum of Mr. Sainz's office. Stepping inside, she cast a quick glance around the room, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings with a sense of curiosity. Despite having visited only a handful of times, she had never lingered long enough to absorb the nuances that defined the space.

Mr. Sainz was engrossed in something on his laptop screen, his attention fully absorbed by the task at hand. Via approached Eleanor, who sat poised across from Mr. Sainz, her demeanour composed and professional as always. With a respectful nod, Via handed over the two folders, her movements precise and efficient.

Via listened intently as Eleanor and Mr. Sainz exchanged words, her curiosity piqued by the mention of the gala and the logistical challenges they faced. She couldn't help but feel a pang of apprehension at the prospect of navigating such a crucial aspect of the event planning process.

“Did you give Julia the paperwork for the gala?” Eleanor asked.

“Yes, she's working through it right now.” Via confirmed, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her stomach.

“Good. We need to get sign off from the fire departments because we're literally at capacity for the event.” Eleanor continued, her tone conveying a sense of urgency that wasn't lost on Via.

The weight of Eleanor's words hung in the air, directing Mr. Sainz’s attention towards Via and then back to Eleanor, his expression unreadable as he absorbed the information. Via shifted slightly under his scrutiny, acutely aware of the weight of his gaze upon her.

“Retract some of the invitations that have no responses.” Mr. Sainz suggested. “I'm sure Ms Driscoll can handle that?”

Via's attention shifted as Mr. Sainz offered his suggestion, his directive clear and concise. She nodded in acknowledgment, her mind already processing the task at hand.

“Do you have capacity, Via?” Eleanor inquired, her gaze shifting to Via as she awaited confirmation.

“Yes, of course. I'll get right on that.” Via replied with unwavering determination, her resolve firm as she prepared to tackle the assignment entrusted to her.

As Via turned to leave, her gaze inadvertently fell upon Carlos Sainz Jr., who sat in the corner of the room, his presence a silent observer to the exchange unfolding before him. Eleanor followed Via's gaze, her eyes meeting Carlos Jr.'s intense scrutiny with a hint of curiosity. Via quickly averted her gaze, a sense of unease settling in the pit of her stomach as she made her exit from the office.

“Via.” Eleanor called out, halting Via's departure.

“Yes, Ms. Pope?” Via turned back, her attention fully on Eleanor.

“I don't think you've met Carlos Sainz Jr. yet?” Eleanor gestured towards Carlos, who stood and approached Via.

Via met Carlos's gaze as he extended his hand, and she shook it firmly, her composure unwavering despite the unexpected introduction.

“Olivia Driscoll.”  Eleanor added, providing Via's full name as a formality.

“Lovely to meet you, sir. If you'll excuse me.” Via replied politely, her tone respectful as she acknowledged the introduction before taking her leave.

With a nod to Eleanor, she exited the office, her mind racing with the events of the day and the newfound knowledge of Mr. Sainz's son's presence in the company.

Via retreated back to her desk, the weight of the encounter with Carlos Sainz Jr. still lingering in her mind. As time passed, her curiosity grew, eventually leading her to seek out Eleanor once more. With a sense of purpose, Via made her way to Mr. Sainz's office, her footsteps echoing in the hushed confines of the executive suite.

Entering the office, Via found it deserted, the air heavy with the lingering presence of power and authority. Her gaze swept over the room, taking in the dark wood cabinets and the photographs adorning the counter. Intrigued, she reached out to run a hand over the polished surface, her fingers lingering on the images captured within the frames.

“Looking for something?” Carlos's voice shattered the silence, his sudden presence causing Via to spin around in surprise.

Startled, Via found Carlos leaning casually against the door frame, his demeanour relaxed yet undeniably imposing. Her pulse quickened at the unexpected encounter, her mind racing to compose herself in the face of his scrutiny.

“I don't think my father would like it much if he knew you were snooping around in his office.” Carlos remarked, his tone tinged with a hint of amusement.

“I wasn't snooping.” Via replied defensively, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment at the implication.

“Olivia, was it?” Carlos inquired, his gaze probing as he addressed her by her full name.

“Yes.” Via confirmed, her voice barely above a whisper as she met his gaze.

“If you're looking for Eleanor, she's left with my father - something about a last-minute meeting.” Carlos informed her, his tone casual yet authoritative.

“Noted, thank you, sir.” Via responded, her voice polite as she acknowledged the information.

“Please, call me Carlos.” He insisted, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Via nodded in acknowledgment, her mind still reeling from the unexpected encounter with Mr. Sainz's son. With a polite smile, she excused herself from the office, determined to focus on her tasks and put the encounter behind her.

Via felt a jolt of surprise as Carlos's hand closed around her wrist, his grip firm yet strangely gentle. She met his gaze, her eyes widening in apprehension as he spoke.

“I won’t tell my father you were snooping,” Carlos stated, his tone low and deliberate.

“Because I wasn’t.” Via countered, her voice tinged with defiance as she resisted the implication.

“I won’t tell him on one condition.” Carlos continued, his gaze unwavering as he held her captive with his intense scrutiny.

“What’s the condition?” Via asked, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

“You don’t come in here by yourself again.” Carlos stated firmly, his expression unyielding as he laid out his terms.

“Yes… Carlos.” Via replied reluctantly, her voice barely above a whisper as she acquiesced to his demand.

With a sense of relief, she extracted her wrist from his grasp and quickly made her exit from the office, the encounter leaving her unsettled yet strangely intrigued by the enigmatic figure of Carlos Sainz Jr.

As Carlos released Via's wrist, she felt a rush of relief flood through her. She offered him a brief, uncertain smile before turning on her heels and hurrying out of the office, her steps quickening as she made her way back to her desk.

Behind her, Carlos watched her retreat, his gaze lingering on her figure until she disappeared from view. A faint smile played at the corners of his lips as he reflected on their brief interaction, a sense of intrigue stirring within him at the enigmatic Olivia Driscoll.

With a thoughtful expression, Carlos turned his attention back to the deserted office, his mind already pondering the implications of their encounter and the potential consequences of his decision to keep Via's presence in the office a secret from his father.

Via settled into her seat at the cosy coffee shop, greeted by the familiar faces of her close friends: Rosa, Tori, and Neil. Their playful banter brought a much-needed smile to her face after the events of the day.

“Well, nice of you to join us, big shot.” Rosa teased, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Hi, Miss rays of sunshine.” Via retorted with a chuckle, exchanging playful greetings with her friends.

“You look terrible.” Tori remarked with mock concern, her tone laced with humour.

“It’s a new look I’m trying out.” Via quipped, her reply eliciting laughter from the group.

“I don’t understand why you have to work so late.” Neil chimed in, his expression one of genuine concern. 

“It's just the nature of the job, you know? Deadlines, last-minute meetings, unexpected tasks. It never seems to end.” Via sighed, her demeanour growing more serious as she explained,

Her friends nodded in understanding, their expressions sympathetic as they listened to her explanation. Despite the challenges she faced, Via couldn't help but feel grateful for the support of her friends, their presence providing a much-needed respite from the demands of her hectic work life.

“No, there’s something else bothering you today. Out with it.” Rosa insisted, her intuition sharp as ever. Via sighed, relenting under her friend's scrutiny.

“The boss’s son showed up.” She confessed, her voice lowering slightly as she revealed the source of her discomfort.

“Ooh, do tell.” Tori exclaimed, leaning in with interest.

“There’s nothing to tell. He’s just intimidating.” Via replied, her gaze flickering with uncertainty.

“You never find people intimidating.” Neil pointed out, his brow furrowing in concern.

“I do when they’re my boss and his son.” Via admitted, her shoulders slumping with the weight of her confession.

“What’s he look like?” Rosa pressed, her curiosity piqued by the mention of Mr. Sainz's son.

“He’s attractive, that’s for sure. He’s the definition of tall, dark, and handsome.” Via admitted, a hint of reluctance in her voice as she acknowledged Carlos Sainz Jr.'s undeniable allure.

“At least he’s something to look at.” Tori remarked with a playful grin, attempting to lighten the mood with her characteristic humour.

Via couldn't help but chuckle at her friend's comment, grateful for the lighthearted banter that helped to momentarily distract her from the complexities of her professional life. Deep down, though, she knew that Carlos Sainz Jr.'s presence in the office would continue to loom large in her thoughts, his enigmatic aura leaving an indelible impression on her psyche.

[izstevns]

meta: the girl she named sarah. izzie stevens + motherhood + memory + sacrifice

sometimes people forget that izzie stevens was a mother before she ever became a surgeon. before she wore scrubs, before she held hearts in her hands, she held a much smaller one — still beating, still forming — beneath her own ribs. she wasn't a mother in the traditional way, though — not in the cribs and lullabies and scraped knees sort of way — but in the aching, belly-heavy, sneaker-clad-feet-on-diner-floors way. in the naming her baby in secret because she couldn’t stand the name “hannah” even though she smiled when the adoptive parents told her sort of way. she called her sarah in her head. soft. sacred. something to hold onto when the ache hollowed her out.

she was fifteen when she found out she was pregnant. sixteen when she gave birth and placed sarah in someone else’s arms, pretending it was a clean cut and not a wound she’d carry like marrow in her bones. and the thing is — no matter how much she tries to push forward, no matter how much medical school or surgical skill or white coat professionalism she layers on — she still cares. deeply. painfully. she always will. and maybe that’s the part she never says out loud.

because people talk about izzie like she’s naïve. like she’s the sunshine girl with the sparkly laugh and the patients she loves too much. but they forget that she grew up in a trailer park with a mother who read her future instead of her report cards. a mother who drained the money izzie had scraped together for college — waitressing double shifts, saving every tip, folding dollar bills like prayers — on psychics and promises. so when people roll their eyes at her optimism, they don’t understand that hope is something she earned. something she fought for. something she chose.

and when she started modeling at eighteen, it wasn’t vanity. it was warfare. it was her looking the world dead in the eye and saying “        i won't be nothing.        ” not after sarah. not after standing barefoot in that adoption agency lobby. not after she watched them drive away. she chose to become someone. for sarah. for the girl she named but never got to raise.

years later, when hannah came to seattle grace needing help, needing her — leukemia, soft cheeks, too many pig trinkets to count — izzie didn’t want to do it. not at first. the thought of opening that scar again made her sick to her stomach. and she told herself she wouldn’t be able to help. that she’d only be a partial match. it wouldn’t be enough. but then she saw the way her adoptive parents looked at her, the way they said please without saying it at all, and she thought about what it meant to be a mother, even in this distant, fractured way. and she said yes. she donated the bone marrow. and afterward, she asked to see her.

they said hannah was tired. they said no. and izzie nodded and smiled and went to the window instead. she stood behind the glass and watched her daughter — her sarah, their hannah — sleep under sterile hospital lights, a pig plush tucked under her arm. and something in izzie broke and something in her healed, and she hasn’t figured out which it was, even now.

she sometimes wonders if hannah’s mother read her charlotte’s web. if she changed the words when she got to the sad parts. if she cried. if hannah cried. if she held her hand when she was scared. she likes to think so. she needs to think so.

because she doesn’t regret her choice. but she carries it. quietly. fiercely. always. and maybe that’s the thing about izzie stevens. people say she’s soft. but the truth is— she bleeds and she builds anyway. she loses and still loves. she gives things away — her heart, her marrow, her childhood — and calls it grace. and she never stopped loving her daughter. not even for one second.

[wetcatspellcaster]

I might be poking a proverbial bear so if you don’t want to answer this ask I completely understand. Do you feel that any of the people who engage with you as the result of finding your work have developed any parasocial relationship qualities?

yea lmao. the difference between before and after bg3 full release is marked.

below the cut bc long post, and probably only interesting to me. (and to you, anon, hopefully!)

i think it depends on your definition of parasocial, which i'm taking here to mean 'celebrity encounters that lead people to see them as a friend, despite limited interactions'. I think that anyone on tumblr is welcome to treat me as a friend. fandom and ao3 as a platform certainly encourages that, it's my own social battery and introversion that's the hindrance, in the grand scheme of things.

but, to me, it's the perceived 'celebrity' bit that's changed.

I don't consider myself a celebrity, to be very clear. fanfiction 'fame' is, to me at this point, so very not real, and it doesn't matter or mean anything to anyone once you get about two steps away from your ship or circle of readership. my writing didn't really change across full/early access release, but the audience and the audience attitude did as more people read my work. I think that 'big name fans' have always existed, but in recent years there's been a marked change in what 'big name fan' means - as fandom behaviours, practices, and fanworks all become more and more mainstreamed. there's now a lot of different factors that have led to people raising fic authors up as 'creators' (we always were creators, obviously, i mean this in the sense of 'creator' as a professional title), as fanfic becomes another brand of 'content' they're invested in. partly this is bc lots of other web content (webtoons, web novels, streams) have blurred the line between what is hobbyist and professional media. i've also noticed (not in a shade way, in a fan studies scholar way) that fan authors/readers across fandoms seem to act a little differently now, in a way that encourages people to see fanfic popularity as a brand of fame or as an in-road to other capital. i could list the changes but i think that would feel targeted to specific people, when the reality is everyone is allowed to act however they want in their space. so instead, i'll just say i think this might be a post-Ali Hazelwood era development. especially as more and more fic is now being trad published.

I also think that there are behaviours in place at my end that may accidentally encourage parasociality with me, when combined with this new landscape of fan culture. writing is the hobby, for me - other fandom interactions just seemed to have happened as a result. and as writing started as a way to make my introvert time more interesting to me, that means i have boundaries in place around fandom socialising that make it seem more parasocial? i can imagine the amount of asks i get comes across as me being interviewed/having 'official' takes on things (just like this answer!), but it's more bc I don't have the energy to sustain more than *counts fingers* six new fandom friends lmao. it probably makes me seem more popular or 'bigger' than i actually am. and the version of myself i put up here is certainly filtered, and projects a confidence i don't have in real life, as this feels like a safer space for me to act that way. it's what makes the anon hate so funny bc they don't touch me as a person... they barely even scrape this version of me on the internet.

I don't always think parasociality is a bad thing. i also think the fic author/reader version of it is also very companionable, a lot of the time. we're all lurkers on the internet, here, and some people prefer this brand of interaction - judging by the number of anons i get which means i can't answer privately/don't know who's talking etc. i think strangers looking out for me and caring about me and my wellbeing is lovely when I can't care about myself. i also don't want to undersell what i've done in the fic space or dismiss it, and instead let myself hold it up as an achievement etc.

but i do think that it leads to a different kind of atmosphere. people seem to envy fanfiction popularity as 'fame', when what happens here barely touches my day-to-day life, except to brighten my day when i get an ask or an ao3 email. people (both authors and readers) sometimes seem to want fic to mean something different than what it is: hobbyist writing you do for fun. at my end, I'm just some guy writing some silly stories. some people seem to think i'm more than that, but i'm really really not.

[kanguin]

Hi, idk who's going to see this post or whatnot, but I had a lot of thoughts on a post I reblogged about AI that started to veer off the specific topic of the post, so I wanted to make my own.

Some background on me: I studied Psychology and Computer Science in college several years ago, with an interdisciplinary minor called Cognitive Science that joined the two with philosophy, linguistics, and multiple other fields. The core concept was to study human thinking and learning and its similarities to computer logic, and thus the courses I took touched frequently on learning algorithms, or "AI". This was of course before it became the successor to bitcoin as the next energy hungry grift, to be clear. Since then I've kept up on the topic, and coincidentally, my partner has gone into freelance data model training and correction. So while I'm not an expert, I have a LOT of thoughts on the current issue of AI.

I'll start off by saying that AI isn't a brand new technology, it, more properly known as learning algorithms, has been around in the linguistics, stats, biotech, and computer science worlds for over a decade or two. However, pre-ChatGPT learning algorithms were ground-up designed tools specialized for individual purposes, trained on a very specific data set, to make it as accurate to one thing as possible. Some time ago, data scientists found out that if you have a large enough data set on one specific kind of information, you can get a learning algorithm to become REALLY good at that one thing by giving it lots of feedback on right vs wrong answers. Right and wrong answers are nearly binary, which is exactly how computers are coded, so by implementing the psychological method of operant conditioning, reward and punishment, you can teach a program how to identify and replicate things with incredible accuracy. That's what makes it a good tool.

And a good tool it was and still is. Reverse image search? Learning algorithm based. Complex relationship analysis between words used in the study of language? Often uses learning algorithms to model relationships. Simulations of extinct animal movements and behaviors? Learning algorithms trained on anatomy and physics. So many features of modern technology and science either implement learning algorithms directly into the function or utilize information obtained with the help of complex computer algorithms.

But a tool in the hand of a craftsman can be a weapon in the hand of a murderer. Facial recognition software, drone targeting systems, multiple features of advanced surveillance tech in the world are learning algorithm trained. And even outside of authoritarian violence, learning algorithms in the hands of get-rich-quick minded Silicon Valley tech bro business majors can be used extremely unethically. All AI art programs that exist right now are trained from illegally sourced art scraped from the web, and ChatGPT (and similar derived models) is trained on millions of unconsenting authors' works, be they professional, academic, or personal writing. To people in countries targeted by the US War Machine and artists the world over, these unethical uses of this technology are a major threat.

Further, it's well known now that AI art and especially ChatGPT are MAJOR power-hogs. This, however, is not inherent to learning algorithms / AI, but is rather a product of the size, runtime, and inefficiency of these models. While I don't know much about the efficiency issues of AI "art" programs, as I haven't used any since the days of "imaginary horses" trended and the software was contained to a university server room with a limited training set, I do know that ChatGPT is internally bloated to all hell. Remember what I said about specialization earlier? ChatGPT throws that out the window. Because they want to market ChatGPT as being able to do anything, the people running the model just cram it with as much as they can get their hands on, and yes, much of that is just scraped from the web without the knowledge or consent of those who have published it. So rather than being really good at one thing, the owners of ChatGPT want it to be infinitely good, infinitely knowledgeable, and infinitely running. So the algorithm is never shut off, it's constantly taking inputs and processing outputs with a neural network of unnecessary size.

Now this part is probably going to be controversial, but I genuinely do not care if you use ChatGPT, in specific use cases. I'll get to why in a moment, but first let me clarify what use cases. It is never ethical to use ChatGPT to write papers or published fiction (be it for profit or not); this is why I also fullstop oppose the use of publicly available gen AI in making "art". I say publicly available because, going back to my statement on specific models made for single project use, lighting, shading, and special effects in many 3D animated productions use specially trained learning algorithms to achieve the complex results seen in the finished production. Famously, the Spider-verse films use a specially trained in-house AI to replicate the exact look of comic book shading, using ethically sources examples to build a training set from the ground up, the unfortunately-now-old-fashioned way. The issue with gen AI in written and visual art is that the publicly available, always online algorithms are unethically designed and unethically run, because the decision makers behind them are not restricted enough by laws in place.

So that actually leads into why I don't give a shit if you use ChatGPT if you're not using it as a plagiarism machine. Fact of the matter is, there is no way ChatGPT is going to crumble until legislation comes into effect that illegalizes and cracks down on its practices. The public, free userbase worldwide is such a drop in the bucket of its serverload compared to the real way ChatGPT stays afloat: licensing its models to businesses with monthly subscriptions. I mean this sincerely, based on what little I can find about ChatGPT's corporate subscription model, THAT is the actual lifeline keeping it running the way it is. Individual visitor traffic worldwide could suddenly stop overnight and wouldn't affect ChatGPT's bottom line. So I don't care if you, I, or anyone else uses the website because until the US or EU governments act to explicitly ban ChatGPT and other gen AI business' shady practices, they are all only going to continue to stick around profit from big business contracts. So long as you do not give them money or sing their praises, you aren't doing any actual harm.

If you do insist on using ChatGPT after everything I've said, here's some advice I've gathered from testing the algorithm to avoid misinformation:

If you feel you must use it as a sounding board for figuring out personal mental or physical health problems like I've seen some people doing when they can't afford actual help, do not approach it conversationally in the first person. Speak in the third person as if you are talking about someone else entirely, and exclusively note factual information on observations, symptoms, and diagnoses. This is because where ChatGPT draws its information from depends on the style of writing provided. If you try to be as dry and clinical as possible, and request links to studies, you should get dry and clinical information in return. This approach also serves to divorce yourself mentally from the information discussed, making it less likely you'll latch onto anything. Speaking casually will likely target unprofessional sources.

Do not ask for citations, ask for links to relevant articles. ChatGPT is capable of generating links to actual websites in its database, but if asked to provide citations, it will replicate the structure of academic citations, and will very likely hallucinate at least one piece of information. It also does not help that these citations also will often be for papers not publicly available and will not include links.

ChatGPT is at its core a language association and logical analysis software, so naturally its best purposes are for analyzing written works for tone, summarizing information, and providing examples of programming. It's partially coded in python, so examples of Python and Java code I've tested come out 100% accurate. Complex Google Sheets formulas however are often finicky, as it often struggles with proper nesting orders of formulas.

Expanding off of that, if you think of the software as an input-output machine, you will get best results. Problems that do not have clear input information or clear solutions, such as open ended questions, will often net inconsistent and errant results.

Commands are better than questions when it comes to asking it to do something. If you think of it like programming, then it will respond like programming most of the time.

Most of all, do not engage it as a person. It's not a person, it's just an algorithm that is trained to mimic speech and is coded to respond in courteous, subservient responses. The less you try and get social interaction out of ChatGPT, the less likely it will be to just make shit up because it sounds right.

Anyway, TL;DR:

AI is just a tool and nothing more at its core. It is not synonymous with its worse uses, and is not going to disappear. Its worst offenders will not fold or change until legislation cracks down on it, and we, the majority users of the internet, are not its primary consumer. Use of AI to substitute art (written and visual) with blended up art of others is abhorrent, but use of a freely available algorithm for personal analyticsl use is relatively harmless so long as you aren't paying them.

We need to urge legislators the world over to crack down on the methods these companies are using to obtain their training data, but at the same time people need to understand that this technology IS useful and both can and has been used for good. I urge people to understand that learning algorithms are not one and the same with theft just because the biggest ones available to the public have widely used theft to cut corners. So long as computers continue to exist, algorithmic problem-solving and generative algorithms are going to continue to exist as they are the logical conclusion of increasingly complex computer systems. Let's just make sure the future of the technology is not defined by the way things are now.

[the-jellicle-duelist]

i woke up feeling Nihilistic about Technology so now you must all suffer with me most people are probably not keeping up with what the tech companies are actually making, doing, demoing, with AI in the way i am. and that's okay you will not like what you hear most likely. i am also not any kind of technology professional. i just like technology. i just read about technology. there's sort of two things that are happening in tandem which is:

there is a race between some of the biggest ones (google, meta, openai, microsoft, etc. along with some not yet household name ones like perplexity and deepseek) to essentially Decide, make the tech, and Win at this technology. think of how Google has been the defacto ruler of the internet between the Search Engine that delivers web pages, and the Ad Engine that makes money for advertisers and google. they have all of the information and make the majority of the money. AI is the first technology in 20 years that has everyone scrambling to become the new Google of That.

ChatGPT, the thing we have access to right now, it is stupid sometimes. but the reason every single company is pushing this shit is because they want to be First to make a product that Works, and they also are rebuilding how we will interact with the internet from the ground up. the thing basically everyone wants is to control 'the window' as it were between You typing things into the computer, and the larger internet. in a real way, Google owns 'the window' in many meaningful (monetary) ways. the future that basically every company is working towards right now is a version of the the websites on the internet become more of a database; a collection of data that can be accessed by the AI model. every computer you use becomes the Search box on Google.com, but when you type things into it, it just finds information and spits it out in front of you. there is a future where 'the internet' is just an AI chat bot.

holding those two ideas at once (everyone wants to be the Google of AI, and also every single tech company wants us to look at the internet in a way they choose and have control over) THIS SUCKS. THIS SUCKS ASS.

THE THING THAT IS BEAUTIFUL ABOUT THE INTERNET IS THAT IT IS OPEN. you can, in almost every place in the world, build a stupid website and connect it to the internet and anyone can look at it. ANYONE. we have absolutely NOTHING ELSE as universal, as open, as this. every single tech company is trying to change this in a meaningful way. in the Worst version of this, the internet just looks like the ChatGPT page, because it scrapes data and regurgitates it back to you. instead of seeing the place where this data was written, formatted, presented, on its own website like god intended

the worst part is: despite the posts you see from almost everyone in our respective bubbles about how AI sucks, we won't use it, it's bad for the environment, etc. NORMAL PEOPLE are using this shit all of the time. they are fine that it occasionally is wrong. and also the models of the various Chatbot AIs is getting better everyday at not being wrong. for like the first time in like 20 years since google launched, there is a real threat that the place people go to search for things online is rapidly shifting somewhere else. because people are using this stuff. the loudest people against AI are currently a minority of loud voices. not only is this not going away, but it is happening. this is actually web 3.0. and it's going to be so shit

this is not to say you will not be able to go to tumblr.com. but it will take effort. browser applications are basically not profitable, just ask Mozilla. google has chrome, which makes money because it has you use Google and it tracks your data to sell you ads. safari doesn't make money, but apple Takes google's money to pay for maintaining it. most other browsers are just forked chromium.

in my opinion there will be one sad browser application for you to access real websites, it will eventually become unmaintained as people just go to the winner's AI chatbot app to access information online. 'websties' will become subculture; a group of hobbyists will maintain the thing that might let you access these things. normal people will move on from the idea of going to websites.

the future of the internet will be a sad, lonely place, where the sterile, commercially viable and advertiser friendly chatbot will tell you about whatever you type or say into the computer. it will encourage people to not make connections online, or even in their lives, because there will be a voice assistant they can talk with. one of the latest google demos, there is a person fixing their bicycle, having Gemini look thru the manual, tell them how to fix a certain part of the bike. Gemini calls a repair shop, and talks to the person on the other side. a lot of people covering this are like 'that future is extremely cool and interesting to me' and when i heard That that is when i know we have like. lost it.

for whatever reason, people want this kind of technology. and it makes me so sad.

[zooplekochi]

Automate Simple Tasks Using Python: A Beginner’s Guide

In today's fast paced digital world, time is money. Whether you're a student, a professional, or a small business owner, repetitive tasks can eat up a large portion of your day. The good news? Many of these routine jobs can be automated, saving you time, effort, and even reducing the chance of human error.

Enter Python a powerful, beginner-friendly programming language that's perfect for task automation. With its clean syntax and massive ecosystem of libraries, Python empowers users to automate just about anything from renaming files and sending emails to scraping websites and organizing data.

If you're new to programming or looking for ways to boost your productivity, this guide will walk you through how to automate simple tasks using Python.

🌟 Why Choose Python for Automation?

Before we dive into practical applications, let’s understand why Python is such a popular choice for automation:

Easy to learn: Python has simple, readable syntax, making it ideal for beginners.

Wide range of libraries: Python has a rich ecosystem of libraries tailored for different tasks like file handling, web scraping, emailing, and more.

Platform-independent: Python works across Windows, Mac, and Linux.

Strong community support: From Stack Overflow to GitHub, you’ll never be short on help.

Now, let’s explore real-world examples of how you can use Python to automate everyday tasks.

🗂 1. Automating File and Folder Management

Organizing files manually can be tiresome, especially when dealing with large amounts of data. Python’s built-in os and shutil modules allow you to automate file operations like:

Renaming files in bulk

Moving files based on type or date

Deleting unwanted files

Example: Rename multiple files in a folder

import os folder_path = 'C:/Users/YourName/Documents/Reports' for count, filename in enumerate(os.listdir(folder_path)): dst = f"report_{str(count)}.pdf" src = os.path.join(folder_path, filename) dst = os.path.join(folder_path, dst) os.rename(src, dst)

This script renames every file in the folder with a sequential number.

📧 2. Sending Emails Automatically

Python can be used to send emails with the smtplib and email libraries. Whether it’s sending reminders, reports, or newsletters, automating this process can save you significant time.

Example: Sending a basic email

import smtplib from email.message import EmailMessage msg = EmailMessage() msg.set_content("Hello, this is an automated email from Python!") msg['Subject'] = 'Automation Test' msg['From'] = 'you@example.com' msg['To'] = 'recipient@example.com' with smtplib.SMTP_SSL('smtp.gmail.com', 465) as smtp: smtp.login('you@example.com', 'yourpassword') smtp.send_message(msg)

⚠️ Note: Always secure your credentials when writing scripts consider using environment variables or secret managers.

🌐 3. Web Scraping for Data Collection

Want to extract information from websites without copying and pasting manually? Python’s requests and BeautifulSoup libraries let you scrape content from web pages with ease.

Example: Scraping news headlines

import requests from bs4 import BeautifulSoup url = 'https://www.bbc.com/news' response = requests.get(url) soup = BeautifulSoup(response.text, 'html.parser') for headline in soup.find_all('h3'): print(headline.text)

This basic script extracts and prints the headlines from BBC News.

📅 4. Automating Excel Tasks

If you work with Excel sheets, you’ll love openpyxl and pandas two powerful libraries that allow you to automate:

Creating spreadsheets

Sorting data

Applying formulas

Generating reports

Example: Reading and filtering Excel data

import pandas as pd df = pd.read_excel('sales_data.xlsx') high_sales = df[df['Revenue'] > 10000] print(high_sales)

This script filters sales records with revenue above 10,000.

💻 5. Scheduling Tasks

You can schedule scripts to run at specific times using Python’s schedule or APScheduler libraries. This is great for automating daily reports, reminders, or file backups.

Example: Run a function every day at 9 AM

import schedule import time def job(): print("Running scheduled task...") schedule.every().day.at("09:00").do(job) while True: schedule.run_pending() time.sleep(1)

This loop checks every second if it’s time to run the task.

🧹 6. Cleaning and Formatting Data

Cleaning data manually in Excel or Google Sheets is time-consuming. Python’s pandas makes it easy to:

Remove duplicates

Fix formatting

Convert data types

Handle missing values

Example: Clean a dataset

df = pd.read_csv('data.csv') df.drop_duplicates(inplace=True) df['Name'] = df['Name'].str.title() df.fillna(0, inplace=True) df.to_csv('cleaned_data.csv', index=False)

💬 7. Automating WhatsApp Messages (for fun or alerts)

Yes, you can even send WhatsApp messages using Python! Libraries like pywhatkit make this possible.

Example: Send a WhatsApp message

import pywhatkit pywhatkit.sendwhatmsg("+911234567890", "Hello from Python!", 15, 0)

This sends a message at 3:00 PM. It’s great for sending alerts or reminders.

🛒 8. Automating E-Commerce Price Tracking

You can use web scraping and conditionals to track price changes of products on sites like Amazon or Flipkart.

Example: Track a product’s price

url = "https://www.amazon.in/dp/B09XYZ123" headers = {"User-Agent": "Mozilla/5.0"} page = requests.get(url, headers=headers) soup = BeautifulSoup(page.content, 'html.parser') price = soup.find('span', {'class': 'a-price-whole'}).text print(f"The current price is ₹{price}")

With a few tweaks, you can send yourself alerts when prices drop.

📚 Final Thoughts

Automation is no longer a luxury it’s a necessity. With Python, you don’t need to be a coding expert to start simplifying your life. From managing files and scraping websites to sending e-mails and scheduling tasks, the possibilities are vast.

As a beginner, start small. Pick one repetitive task and try automating it. With every script you write, your confidence and productivity will grow.

Conclusion

If you're serious about mastering automation with Python, Zoople Technologies offers comprehensive, beginner-friendly Python course in Kerala. Our hands-on training approach ensures you learn by doing with real-world projects that prepare you for today’s tech-driven careers.

[lemontasiafanfiction]

Bugged Out Chapter Five

Swing And a Miss

The sun was sinking behind the jagged skyline of Queens, smearing the horizon with streaks of amber and purple, as Tony Stark hovered mid-air in the Iron Man suit, staring down at a row of brownstones and chain-link fences. His HUD flickered with information—heat signatures, nearby police scanners, the faint glow of a pizza oven in a corner shop three blocks away. He sighed, resting his chin on his hand as he floated, bored out of his mind.

“So, let me get this straight,” he said aloud, the AI in his suit catching every word. “I’m flying around in a billion-dollar suit, burning jet fuel like it’s going out of style, and all for what? To find some scrappy vigilante who can’t even afford proper spandex?”

The suit’s AI, a polished and professional female voice—Tony had named her FRIDAY—responded in a tone that managed to sound both sympathetic and mildly sarcastic. “Shall I remind you that this mission was handed to you directly by Director Fury? He’s the one who—”

“Yeah, yeah, Fury’s whole ‘global security’ spiel,” Tony interrupted, throwing up his hands as if he were gesturing to an invisible audience. “It’s just—come on, FRIDAY. This Spider-Man guy is supposed to be running around everywhere, swinging from buildings like a wannabe Tarzan, and yet I’ve spent three nights looking for him and what do I have to show for it? A sore back and the privilege of inhaling Queens smog. Fantastic.”

“You’ve also identified three hotspots for mugging activity and assisted in resolving two break-ins,” FRIDAY noted, her tone just shy of reproachful. “Not a complete waste of time.”

Tony smirked. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll add ‘small-time crime consultant’ to my resume.”

He kicked on the thrusters and shot higher into the sky, surveying the city below. The rooftops were empty save for the occasional stray cat or a flicker of light from someone’s TV. The city felt… normal. It buzzed with the usual chaos—traffic jams, people yelling from stoops, someone playing terrible jazz on a saxophone from an open window—but there was no sign of Spider-Man.

Tony had read the reports. Spider-Man had been seen swinging through Queens, stopping muggers, carjackers, and other bottom-feeders, leaving them tied up with some kind of weird webbing that the NYPD was still trying to scrape off lampposts. Fury’s folder said Spider-Man was strong, fast, and agile, the kind of guy who could leap across rooftops and vanish into an alley before anyone got a good look at him.

Read more if you dare... Bugged Out - Chapter 5 - Lemontasia - Spider-Man - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]