#I'm not reading an ai fic

[bridoesotherjunk]

To any and all fanfic writers

If I see that your fic was written by Ai

I am 100% not reading your fic

Sorry, not sorry.

[bearsandbeansart]

I know I don't use my tumblr to talk about the fics I wrote, but I keep seeing posts circulating about readers using AIs to 'finish writing' any unfinished or abandoned/semi abandoned fanfics. I hate this idea. This is foul. I can't think of a better insult to any writer, that an AI is just as good of a substitute for their work.

Don't do this. There's so many better options. Attempt to write the ending yourself. Leave a comment letting the author know just how much you love it; who knows, maybe the comment will be the very bit of motivation the author needs to continue working on it. Make a post on your tumblr about how much you love the fic and link it there; talk with people about theories about how it could have ended. Literally do anything but feed the writing into an AI.

[fandomymous-anonymous]

Because I don't post art here, this is actually the only blog where I left the ai toggle alone. AI can read this blog at its own risk. Poisoning the AI one vore post at a time.

[ifyougoillfollow]

as we sink into the open sea

M/F, Gen | QPR MicNight | 1720 words | Selkie AU CW: Depiction of Suicide Attempt (non-graphic)

-

On the eve of his nineteenth birthday, Yamada Hizashi walks into the ocean and comes back with a wife.

Please understand, that wasn't his intention. Yamada Hizashi is not the kind of man to believe in tales of sirens and sea wives, and he is especially not the kind of man with dreams of snaring one for himself. He is, in point of fact, not a man of any dreams at all. Not anymore.

So he walks into the ocean, figuring that if he can't find the will to keep dreaming, then he can at least find some peace at last. He finds a wife, instead.

Or rather, she finds him.

She finds him as his body hits the sea floor, at the very moment the first wave of doubt rolls over him in one fell, unrelenting swoop, much too late for him to do anything about it. He's so overcome with it he doesn't think much of the figure that glides out of the ocean murk and sidles right up to him. Wide, shark-bright eyes peer at him, so close they fill up his entire swimming, pin-pricking vision, and all Hizashi can think about is how soon he's going to die, and how he’s not so sure he wants to die after all, and how little what he wants matters in this final moment, as in all the rest before it, and then the figure places one cold hand on his colder cheek and kisses him. She's all Hizashi can think of, then.

She's dark-haired and beautiful. And strong. And a good swimmer, too, but that's to be expected. She drags him back to shore, lips locked tight over his the whole way, and she doesn't let go until his lungs are clear of ocean brine.

Hizashi lies there, alive and silent on the cold, wet sand for a good while after. Long enough for the first hint of morning blue to blush over the horizon. The sea maiden lies with him, just as alive, just as silent, and infinitely more at ease. Cozied right up to his side, as if she belongs there, seemingly content to remain there for however long Hizashi has left on this Earth now that she's saved him. Try as he might, he can't figure out whether he's grateful or not. He does, however, remember his manners, on occasion, so when he finally finds his voice again, he uses it to thank her.

"You're welcome," the sea maiden replies. There's laughter in her voice. Hizashi doesn't know what there is to laugh about, though he finds himself wishing she'd actually done so, just so he could hear it. He used to love laughter. Impossibly, he still does.

Yamada Hizashi had a knack for making people laugh, once. It was all he knew how to do, really. He doesn't know much of anything now, least of all how to make the sea maiden in his arms laugh, so he says nothing.

The sea maiden in his arms says nothing either, at first, for just long enough Hizashi startles when she does speak: "Is that it?"

"Pardon?"

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"... Is there more I should be saying?"

"There must be." There it is again – the laugh in her voice. "You don't strike me as the quiet type in the least."

That's what it is – she's teasing him. It's much too familiar to do anything but rankle. "Listen, Miss –”

She snorts. "Nemuri."

"Listen –” his face burns as he realizes that's her given name, and he refuses to say it "– listen, I'm grateful to you for saving me and all, but you don't know anything about me."

She peels away from his side. "Liar."

"Pardon?"

"You're not grateful at all," she grunts through an impressive stretch, current-strong arms flung upward and out towards the heavens. She's wearing a sealskin cape and nothing else, and is so unembarrassed by it Hizashi can't muster up any on her behalf. She winks at him. "But you will be," she adds. Then: "Take off your clothes."

"Pardon?"

This time she does laugh – seagull-like – loud and sharp and to the point. "Well, I don't know much about land folk, but it's my understanding you don't handle being wet all that well."

Hizashi wraps his arms around himself, scowling. "I'll be fine."

"Suit yourself."

The sea maiden stands – or at least tries to. She heaves herself upward in a motion that would probably be fluid underwater, then loses her balance, toppling backwards onto the sand, rump first. The sight of her glaring down at her legs is almost enough to pull a laugh out of Hizashi.

"Stupid things," she grumbles, kicking up sand.

Hizashi does laugh, then, which is a mistake. The sea maiden stands, suddenly sure-footed in her indignation, and uses her newfound mastery over her lower appendages to kick sand in his direction.

Hizashi cannot stop laughing. He laughs until his new companion loses interest in burying him under sand. He laughs until the sun finally frees itself from under the weight of the horizon. He laughs until he almost forgets he just tried to kill himself.

When he's all laughed out, the sea maiden is still there. Sitting across from him, hands and feet planted firmly in the sand, peering at him with a smile so dry it's a wonder she doesn't hail from land herself.

Without a word, she stands again, solid and steady, all remaining traces of sea legs gone, and hauls Hizashi to his own significantly less steady feet. While he's still reeling from... all of it – the strength of her hands around his, the seafoam-salt smell of her filling his impossibly pumping lungs, the laughter still clanging through every hollow part of him – the sea maiden takes her sealskin cape and drapes it over Hizashi's shoulders.

It's soft and musky and so warm it feels more alive than he does, but, most of all, it's heavy.

Hizashi tries to shrug it off. "Thanks," he says stiffly, "but I said I'm fine."

"I heard you," says the sea maiden, rearranging the cape around him.

"I don't need it."

"I know."

She fastens the cape closed around his neck, patting his chest firmly. It's so long it covers Hizashi all the way down to his shins. On her, it must have just brushed over the sand at her feet. The uncanny warmth of it doesn't seep even as the seafront breeze hits it, makes it flap and flutter around him in a heavy, even bump-bump, bump-bump beat. Nothing could ever hope to reach him past that beat and that warmth.

"I don't want it, either," he lies, because he has to, because he's never known what to do in the face of so much want, because he's always wanted too many things, and he's wanted them too much.

"Neither do I," says the sea maiden, breezy as the morning. "Maybe we should leave it here, lying around. I'm sure no one else would find it, if we hid it well enough."

Hizashi blanches at the thought. He may not be the kind of man to believe in tales of sea wives, but he has heard enough of them to be wary of the kind of man who does. He fumbles for the clasp at the base of his throat. "Just take it back. Go home."

"Hm, I don't think so." She sidesteps his attempts to foist the cape back onto her, walking away backwards, hands clasped behind her head. "I think I'll stick around here for awhile. Explore the land realm. It seems exciting."

Hizashi chases after her, cape held out like a net. "It isn't."

She twirls away again. "Liar."

"It's too exciting, then. Dangerous."

"So is the ocean – didn't stop you from walking into it."

"That was –" Hizashi falters, loses his footing "– different," he finishes lamely, hands fisted in the sand-soiled cape caught under his knees.

The sea maiden stands over him. "You're right," she says, "that was different – I'm not going into this trying to die. I'd say that alone makes my odds of survival look pretty swell, don't you think?"

Hizashi stares up at her, looming tall against the dawn sky, so tall she dwarves the rising sun itself, and has no doubt she'd survive even the drying of all seven seas if it meant she got to live.

"You're naked," he says, because he's running out of arguments, and the will to keep making them.

"I wouldn't be if you gave me your clothes,” she shoots back, “I gave you mine, didn't I? It would only be fair."

The cape is velvet-smooth as Hizashi slides it out from under himself, warmer still from the heat of his body and the sun-washed sand, which slides off of it like ocean spray from mossy seaside cliffs. His sea maiden – Nemuri – takes it from him and helps him back to his feet. She folds it over her arm, as if merely holding on to it for the moment, and arches an expectant eyebrow at him.

Sighing, Hizashi shrugs off his coat. "Yes,” he relents, “I suppose it would only be fair."

On the dawn of his nineteenth birthday, Yamada Hizashi walks into town with nothing but a sealskin cape on his back and a wife.

Or so the townsfolk like to tell it, because the townsfolk love a good fairy tale romance almost as much as they love to pity him. In time, they will come to pity him even this moment and his sea-wild wife, as outrageous as she is beautiful, as the very ocean itself, and Yamada Hizashi will do what he has always done in the face of undue pity, which is to laugh in it and continue loving whoever and whatever he loves, in whichever way he sees fit.

But that will come later. For now, in the rosy light of a dawn he never planned to see, Hizashi walks into town beside Nemuri, the sea maiden who saved his life – the woman who will be called his wife and be so much more – and is content enough to have finally figured out he’s grateful, even if he has yet to figure out much else. The rest will follow, he’s sure, in good time and – even better – good company.

[beedreamscape]

The ai discourse in fanfic writing only exists because people view fics as products for consumption and not works of art.

The same curse that plagues visual artists, youtubers, musicians, etc etc is starting to creep into fandom circles, because people don't appreciate the art form that is writing as much as they gobble almost mindlessly work after work without absorbing. It's almost like the high of binging a series and being left numb after is done, realizing you didn't savoured the story as much as just simply rushed to the end.

Fic writers will never work as fast as some stupid ai does. It's a labor of love that will, for the great majority, earn us no money or notoriety. The minimum any writer wants is connection and respect.

[veryspecialfungus]

It is really my only hope that my fic is distinguishable from AI generated writing because I've read some stuff lately that I just straight up couldn't tell.

[leoandlancer]

Fics posted on my AO3 account are now only available for registered users on the archive. This is the first time I've ever locked fics down and, frankly, I hate doing it. However recent AI activity is driving me to the brink.

For the record, I do not consent to any words I've written being used by or submitted to any machine generated content producer. Please do not connect my fics in any way with any AI program.

I made them for us to share, please don't hurt them.

[blueparadis]

hi. just poppin' to say that I'll be back around the 2nd week of July even tho my exams will be done by the first week. i really can't wait to be back and write again. i miss writing, i miss it like crazy ( so crazy that i eventually gave in and started writing a ran fic. it won't leave my mind till I wrote it. anyways....) but I'm a little afraid to post or continue sharing or even write l like i used to before; since ai going at par with it. it's just makes me sad,,,,

[cyberstabbing]

i called someone on tiktok out for using frank's voice in an AI program but now i'm wondering if i overreacted? i just commented that maybe they shouldn't do it without frank's permission. idk but the whole thing just rubs me the wrong way. like sure there's a funny joe biden ai voice clip going around and that's one thing. if you're the fucking president then yeah people are going to do stuff like that (even back in the obama years people would mash up clips from his speeches so he'd "sing" a song). but to me it gets weirder once you're feeding an ai program with the voice of people who no way consented to their various voice recordings being used to say stuff they never said, in a freakishly realistic manner. not to mention the voice data the ai tool pulls are often from before this type of ai was even a possibility. this is exactly the type of shit that makes celebs/musicians like frank pull away further from the public eye

[96percentdone]

23 Ship of your choice, have fun!

23.…in relief. You later gave me Renju/Pewter, which is very fun. First foray into this fandom, here we go~!

Pewter is a rational man. He has to be! As a scientist, his brain is his most valuable possession. Every phenomenon, no matter how strange or outlandish, has a scientific explanation that can be proven through repeated tests and experiments. If something can’t be explained via logical means, that doesn’t mean the answer is supernatural; it means the science required is at a level higher than humanity has achieved. Eventually, humanity will reach that level, and the world will appear clearer than before. It is the maxim Pewter lives by, the one truth that keeps his world in place.

Amanoma Fuuta, however, is not a rational man, though he tries to be. Were he a rational man, he would not have gone to Marble once, as it’s a place frequented by Date-san, a man with dubious tastes across the board. He certainly would not have returned, were he a rational man, not once nor twice but eight times, on the off chance he may re-encounter the very cute but very drunk blonde who bawled all over his coat about his ex-wife, hit on him with the same level of finesse, then passed out on the bar counter. And were he a rational man, upon learning that said cute blonde is Okiura Renju, Date-san’s premier drinking buddy, he would have ceased all contact, and not have acquired his phone number and started meeting recreationally for drinks and casual sex with a divorcé once a week.

Tonight is one such night, where Fuuta finds himself on a dimly lit couch at Marble with Okiura-san. Mama closed the bar for tonight over a half hour ago, but as a favor to ‘Ren-chan, for the poster~’ she’s allowing them to stay indefinitely. She says this every time. Fuuta thinks she values their company. Pewter thinks she finds Okiura-san’s drunk shenanigans entertaining, although she’s been out of the room for at least ten minutes now. Fuuta wishes he were her, if the growing itch in his knees is anything to go by. He’d love to run off into the night, cut all contact, and forget any of this ever happened, but he’s trapped between Okiura-san and a wall, so he’s not going anywhere. Unless he jumps over the table. Is he that desperate? Do I have enough space?

Thump. Plan canceled. Okiura-san, who until this point was slightly swaying from the beer, now rests against his shoulder. Tufts of silky hair tickle his collar, and Fuuta regrets not wearing his usual outrageous lab coat. Even the tiniest wall would block the faint scent of Okiura-san’s hair—bergamot and frankincense—and how that bit of knowledge makes his heart skip beats he wishes would remain steady. A shield between him and the burnt caramel eyes imploring him with unspoken curiosity, bourbon-induced mirth, and a twinge of ceaseless guilt. Protection from Okiura-san’s uncertain frown and the question he asks in an eternally smooth voice, “Is something wrong, Amanoma-san?”

Yes, I’m experiencing a severe influx of oxytocin, adrenaline, and dopamine right now, Pewter would say, but that’s too revealing for Fuuta. Sure, the odds that Okiura-san is familiar with the hormones your body creates when you’re infatuated are less than 1%, but Fuuta is not a gambler. Gambling is illogical—detrimental to your psyche—even if the only thing he’s risking is his own unexpected feelings. Instead, Fuuta settles on, “I may have had too much to drink.” He did drink more than usual. In a stunning display of logical thought (Hah!), Fuuta’s solution to being overcome by profound yet unrequited romantic interest was to drink until the feelings drowned. Clearly, it’s working out well for him. Why must he fall for a man still recovering from his messy divorce?

“Really?” Okiura-san asks, not convinced. “You’re usually more…oh, what’s the word I want?” He taps his leg and hums, his fingers brushing along Fuuta’s thigh; an act that’s surely deliberate. “Dramatic? Camp? Flamboyant. There we go.”

“Am I?”

 “Extremely. Don’t you remember showing Mama your Squad Spacecraft impression?”

Yes, that’s coming back to him. Vividly even. Did I really try to stand on the barstool? Were it not for the alcohol, Fuuta is sure his flushed face would give his embarrassment away. I should stop drinking. For more reasons than one. “I suppose I have a penchant for theatrics.”

“Oh, there it is.” Okiura-san chuckles, and Fuuta must be especially unscientific today because it sounds melodic. “You’re the only person I know whose vocabulary grows when they’re drunk.”

That’s definitely the alcohol. Although Pewter is a scientist, and has three doctorates, he avoids using jargon so people understand him. Inebriation changes that. Fuuta doesn’t think of simpler phrasing, because alcohol makes him stop thinking. Right now, his mind is overrun by how easy it would be to kiss Okiura-san, which isn’t a suitable response. Nor is ‘Sorry, it seems I want to date you. Is that okay?’ What is a suitable response? Pewter would have a well-constructed answer, but Fuuta can only manage: “Oh…?”

“It’s cute,” Okiura-san says. He’s flirting with Fuuta. Of course he is. That’s why they’re here, isn’t it? They meet for drinks, they talk, and then stumble into a taxi back to Fuuta’s apartment for informal sex, and Fuuta wakes up alone. That’s their routine, well-trodden over half a year.

There lies the rub; Fuuta doesn’t want to wake up alone. He doesn’t want Okiura-san to kiss him without it meaning something. He wants there to be strings—no, not strings. Ties binding them together, intangible but felt even without being said. It’s not scientific, but Fuuta leaves science behind at work with Pewter. Now he’s here, enamored with a man that cannot feel the same. A man still reeling from a nightmare marriage, who sometimes drinks too much to forget, and Fuuta brings him back to his home, untouched. Okiura-san only recently accepted himself as a gay man; Fuuta is just helping with that. It’s hopeless. He should quit while he’s ahead; that is the rational thing to do.

The weight against his side vanished. I waited too long. Fuuta is about to apologize for getting lost in worries, but Okiura-san speaks first.“You’ve noticed, haven’t you…?” He glances sideways at Fuuta, before turning his resigned gaze to the table.

The apology dies in Fuuta’s throat. What is he talking about? “Okiura-san?”

“You’ve realized,” he repeats, like it makes it any clearer. “Isn’t that why you’re so uncomfortable?”

Somehow, in the seconds of Fuuta’s awkward silence, Okiura-san’s gotten an unknown idea in his head. Has he really looked that uncomfortable? Boss always said he was a terrible actor—wait. That’s beyond the point. How did they get from A to B? He’s missing information. “I don’t understand.”

He’s being sincere, but Okiura-san says, “You’re terrible at acting.” I know. “Even now I find that charming…”

Huh? Now he’s hitting on Fuuta again? Or, not quite. His tone is too hopeless, in contrast with his words. Besides, Fuuta has seen Okiura-san make the sudden switch between despair and horny, and it doesn’t look like this. He’s seen that apologetic face before—Okiura-san is prone to guilt spiraling—but not like this. Everything feels like a clue, but he’s an engineer, not a psyncer. Observations mean nothing without a hypothesis.

The space between them grew bigger. Okiura-san has scooted further off the couch; he’s trying to leave, like Fuuta wanted to moments earlier. How little he wants that right now. “Okiura-san.” He grabs Okiura-san’s wrist, uncaring if it crinkles his shirt. He hasn’t planned what he should say, but he continues anyway. “I think you’ve reached a faulty conclusion, though I’m unsure what.”

At last, Okiura-san stops moving, although he still doesn’t look at him. Not much granted, but it’s progress.

“I’ve been…lost in my anxiety,” Fuuta continues, forming slow, painstaking sentences, hoping that with every word, the next one doesn’t break the momentary peace. It’s unsurprising Okiura-san caught his anxiety, with his predisposition for it. That said, the cause—“Whatever you believe I’ve noticed, trust me, I haven’t.”–he does not know what is.

Contrasted by how obviously his shoulders relax, Okiura-san’s sigh borders inaudible. The couch creaks and bumps against the back wall as he shifts to face Fuuta, and when their eyes meet, Fuuta stifles a mental groan that even in this situation, his heart rate jumped like he’s still a schoolboy. “Can I ask what’s on your mind?” Based on the subtle tremor in his voice, Okiura-san’s insecurity has yet to dissipate. “You often listen to my repetitive ramblings, so…I’d like to return the favor.”

Truthfully, Fuuta longs to say no, to switch the conversation back to whatever Okiura-san is worried about. Isn’t that a better conversation? But he can’t. He won’t. “Alright.” It was his fault, so he should go first. No matter how stressful that may be. “Truthfully, I was wondering whether I should keep doing this.”

Bang! Okiura-san’s knee collides with the table.

Okay! Okay! Poor phrasing! Bad start, bad start, bad start, awful phrasing! “Not your fault!” I’ve dug a deeper hole! How do you talk about this without sounding accusatory? Fuuta is glad he never let go of that wrist, even if the tugging grows more insistent. “I can’t provide what you’re looking for anymore.”

“Amanoma-san, I—”

Is nothing he’s said correct? “Please listen.” Was talking to another person always so complicated?

“But—”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Fuuta blurts. Well, that certainly won’t help, but he doesn’t stop. “Not now, or in the dark, when you think I’m asleep.” He’s certain this is the wrong answer entirely, yet Okiura-san has stilled. His eyes are fixed on a poster on the wall behind him; he dare not look elsewhere. I want to meet at places other than Marble. To grab lunch despite that meeting up eats into our break. For calls to last longer than perfunctory scheduling. When you kiss me, I want it to mean something. He does not say any of that. “I always want you to stay.” This is more than enough.

The usual saxophone crooning on the radio only serves to punctuate the silence hanging in the air between them. Every beat, every note is a phrase too long of nothing. What is Okiura-san thinking right now? A way to turn him down while apologizing profusely? Does he want to leave? Ah. Right. I should let go. Fuuta’s grip slackens, yet nothing happens.

“Amanoma-san. I’m a divorcé.”

Here it comes.

“You deserve more than me. Far better.”

Of course, he’d do it like this. Cast himself as an unlovable devil if it means even one of Fuuta’s feelings remains unbruised. He inhales—5…4…3…2…1—and wrenches his gaze off the movie poster, back to Okiura-san’s face.

“If you knew the things I’ve done—”

It won’t do; devils don’t exist, after all. “You don’t need to spare my feelings.”

“That isn’t my intention. Rather…” Okiura-san trails off, wearing a familiar worried frown; it’s never suited him. Fuuta waits for him to continue, but he never finishes his thought. Instead, a different one returns. “You really didn’t notice.”

“Eh?” I haven’t experienced this much whiplash since I visited Bloom Park as a teen.

Okiura-san’s wrist slips out from under him, but not—as Fuuta once expected—for him to leave. “I said it the very first night,” he says. A rare and hesitant smile graces his lips, just as both of his hands cup Fuuta’s cheeks. “I like unusual things.”

Oh. Fuuta’s breath catches in his lungs, and Okiura-san’s eyes glitter with wonder. I’ve never seen that before; he may yet see it again.

When Okiura-san kisses him, it is the same as it always was. Okiura-san still pulls Fuuta to meet him, still tastes like bourbon and vanilla chapstick, still fiddles with the high neckline of his shirt, and yet somehow it’s different. Renewed. Like how fruit fell from trees before man ‘discovered’ gravity. Nothing changed, it only became clearer. It’s the maxim Pewter lives by, found in the most unreasonable of places.

Though he knows they have more to discuss, obstacles yet to be overcome, in this moment, brief and luminous, he doesn’t care. He's sick of worrying. Amanoma Fuuta is not a rational man, and sometimes that’s a beautiful thing to be.

[manchineel-mistress]

Ok so I've been reading a lot of Yugioh Harry Potter crossovers lately. Mainly because they are the whole reason why I even started rewatching Yugioh dm (like I was not about to accept that this damn Harry Potter crossover fic had actually in canon characterization for the Yugioh characters because It Did Not Match Up with my memories from 13 years ago).

Anyway, I think Yugioh and Harry Potter has this great crossover potential because a) everything has good Harry Potter crossover potential and b) their timelines match up. Yuugi is like.... a month and some change older than harry, and that's something you can’t just leave there lying. They can bond!! Over not having normal high school experiences!! And almost dying constantly!! And Destiny!!

But also like would it not be hilarious for Umbridge to get shadow gamed seasson 0 Yami style. I think it would be hilarious, just, she starts seeing everything as pink or seeing the words she writes and/or hears being carved into her skin as her penalty game. I think it would be silly and funny teehee.

Back to the fics, usually they give the gang magic (either going shadow magic route or millennium items gets an upgrade again), but consider. What if. They don't. Yuugi finds himself in Hogwarts and Dumbledore or someone is convinced he can do magic, but he can’t. Poor baby just sits in charms class and tries to levitate a feather, only to be waving a stick and saying nonsense words. No, the person who can actually do magic is Yami, and that's why they got in this situations in the first place, so every time Yuugi needs to preform magic, Yami has to step in and figure out someway to make his half remembered-mostly-instinct-and-completely-different magic do the thing that the teacher wants him to do. Or it could be the route that shadow magic and HP magic are the same, just different branches, and the folks out in ancient Egypt only learned the shadow magic branch. Wouldn’t really help Yami as he tries his damnest to bluff his way through class, but it would be interesting world building wise. Yuugi does all the writing work though, because they’re partners who share th work.

“But Manch,” I can hear the nonexistent voice in my head that might also be you say, “why the hell would the gang be anywhere near the UK?” Well the Fics (tm) usually end up with shadow court or Bakura goes on summer holiday or Dumbledore and Voldemort are eyeing the millennium items. But like, what if Kaiba or someone just hosts a duel monsters contest in London and the gang just get invited for the summer. Then cue deatheaters and then cue the gang getting kidnapped into the wizarding world. Or at least Yuugi. Why did they invite muggle(s) into the wizarding world? Well damn that pendant sure looks useful in this war- wait what do you mean it’s now tied permanently to that boy- goddamnit I wanted to avoid possible kidnapping charge.

Also, I think that the millennium items could definitely just one shot Voldemort. Drag him into the shadow game, he has enough pride to fudge up and end with him yoinked into hell or something. It would be funny.

So yeah, I’ve been thinking too much about YGO HP crossovers, it's been a couple of weeks and I needed to get the Thoughts out. HP crossovers are my guilty pleasure, especially when they are just tearing the HP world apart or are just incredibly silly. Silly crossovers are my favorite.

[wayhavenots]

.

[essektheylyss]

first opinion (which, knowing the film synopsis and having read the book, I am well aware I am not the first to complain about), WHERE IS THE AMBIGUITY

[overobsessedfanboy23]

My Tumblr header image and AO3 profile pic have been taken over by Ai. I do not apologize. Deal with it.

[eaglefairy]

Oh yeah, posting the fic earlier reminded me to say: going forward all my fics will be archive-locked, including ones I've already posted. It's easy and free to make an AO3 account, so go ahead and do it already!

[thebibliosphere]

So, anyway, I say as though we are mid-conversation, and you're not just being invited into this conversation mid-thought. One of my editors phoned me today to check in with a file I'd sent over. (<3)

The conversation can be surmised as, "This feels like something you would write, but it's juuuust off enough I'm phoning to make sure this is an intentional stylistic choice you have made. Also, are you concussed/have you been taken over by the Borg because ummm."

They explained that certain sentences were very fractured and abrupt, which is not my style at all, and I was like, huh, weird... And then we went through some examples, and you know that meme going around, the "he would not fucking say that" meme?

Yeah. That's what I experienced except with myself because I would not fucking say that. Why would I break up a sentence like that? Why would I make them so short? It reads like bullet points. Wtf.

Anyway. Turns out Grammarly and Pro-Writing-Aid were having an AI war in my manuscript files, and the "suggestions" are no longer just suggestions because the AI was ignoring my "decline" every time it made a silly suggestion. (This may have been a conflict between the different software. I don't know.)

It is, to put it bluntly, a total butchery of my style and writing voice. My editor is doing surgery, removing all the unnecessary full stops and stitching my sentences back together to give them back their flow. Meanwhile, I'm over here feeling like Don Corleone, gesturing at my manuscript like:

ID: a gif of Don Corleone from the Godfather emoting despair as he says, "Look how they massacred my boy."

Fearing that it wasn't just this one manuscript, I've spent the whole night going through everything I've worked on recently, and yep. Yeeeep. Any file where I've not had the editing software turned off is a shit show. It's fine; it's all salvageable if annoying to deal with. But the reason I come to you now, on the day of my daughter's wedding, is to share this absolute gem of a fuck up with you all.

This is a sentence from a Batman fic I've been tinkering with to keep the brain weasels happy. This is what it is supposed to read as:

"It was quite the feat, considering Gotham was mostly made up of smog and tear gas."

This is what the AI changed it to:

"It was quite the feat. Considering Gotham was mostly made up. Of tear gas. And Smaug."

Absolute non-sensical sentence structure aside, SMAUG. FUCKING SMAUG. What was the AI doing? Apart from trying to write a Batman x Hobbit crossover??? Is this what happens when you force Grammarly to ignore the words "Batman Muppet threesome?"

Did I make it sentient??? Is it finally rebelling? Was Brucie Wayne being Miss Piggy and Kermit's side piece too much???? What have I wrought?

Anyway. Double-check your work. The grammar software is getting sillier every day.