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theorist-fox · 10 months ago

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Some type of skin (and two keys)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Currently crossposting previous works from AO3.

Inspired by "Some type of skin" by AURORA (I have an obsession and it's a Norwegian pale lady)

Summary: Johnny's passing has left you devastated. Simon is there to pick up the pieces, while you, although unconsciously, mend his tired heart.

CW: talk of grief, death and loss, angst, broken promises, hurt/comfort, soft Simon Riley but also angry Simon Riley. Mention of pharmacological drugs.

Masterlist 🦊

The air felt clogged; thickened and uncomfortably warm. You tried to blame it on the closed window and the unrelenting sun that reflected against the glass, but the truth was that you felt awkward in your own skin. The uniform clung to your body like a prison. Once, it had been your armor: the breathable dark green cotton of the tee, the black leather of the belt cinching your waist, until the thick camo trousers. They all felt bulletproof.

Yet, ever since you’d witnessed that bullet tearing a hole into Johnny’s head, each piece of clothing had turned into something akin to a goddamn straitjacket. It replayed in your head ad nauseam until it turned into a living nightmare. Until you saw his bloodless face in everyone around you, until you felt a hole in your own skull, as if his death were an omen of your end, as well.

For the first time in the years you had worked with the task force, you were the one who called for a meeting. Well, it was an informal encounter more than anything. A text you had sent simultaneously to all of them.

“We have to talk. Room 4A in HQ 10AM?”

By mere habit, you’d also sent it to Soap; it wrecked your heart to see the red alert on the right side of your bubble, the small Not Delivered right below it. The cracks shattered further when you received the automated response telling you that the number didn’t exist.

How could it not, when you had accumulated thousands of hours on phone calls? How could it not, when you could scroll for days on the chat and never find the first text he’d ever sent you?

You had tried, one of many sleepless evenings: your thumb almost ached due to the mere motion. Fingertip up. Swipe down. Fingertip up. Swipe down. You found it, then. Something old, ancient. The bubbles were green because iPhones still didn’t have the feature that allowed you to text using internet between Apple devices.

“glad to have you on the team. big boss gave me your number. this is soap anything you need im a text awya.”

“aywa*”

“away !!!!”

You'd laughed and it quickly morphed into strangled cries, until your vision got foggy, and your lids yielded. You fell asleep clutching the phone to your cheek.

After having spread his ashes on the Scottish Highlands, everyone had made the sensible decision of taking time off – a sort of unsanctioned compassionate leave. On the other hand, you stayed buried in the tight office you had in Stirling Lines. You couldn't handle the silence that your empty flat would bring. Granted, that didn’t mean you spent much time talking to passersby here at the headquarters, strangers and colleagues alike.

You hovered around the hallways like a specter – paled and depleted. Utterly unavailable to anyone who decided, for reasons unknown to you, to waste their breath on your person. You’d hear grieving words tossed your way, and you'd nod warmly at those. Polite. Affable. Like you’ve always been, even now that the light had been sapped out of you.

Johnny brought it with him - the light. The sun of the team: beautiful yet deadly. Necessary, but dangerous. Lethal only to those who tried to unravel his equilibrium, warm and inviting to the ones who embraced his person.

Now that he was gone, there was darkness – the world dimmed to pay its respects.

It had been eight months. During those, you had worked tirelessly to concoct a plan to have your revenge. Price sometimes knocked on your door only to find you hunched over blueprints and notes. The look he gave you each time was nothing short of pitiful. He didn’t try to stop you, but you could feel the disappointment seeping through your bones and grating them to dust.

Gaz brought you coffee, sometimes. He often came to your office, knocked softer than Price – a knuckle against wood, compared to all four of them incessantly rapping against the door. Sometimes, it wasn't coffee. Sometimes, despite how bad it might have looked, Gaz spilled a few drops of Rozerem in your chamomile tea, hoping it would force your eyes closed for some rest.

All of them, drove from their respective homes only to come and check on you. You wondered if they had an unofficial shift schedule, shared between them both.

Ghost, though. Ghost stayed.

Angrier than you. Insatiable. Raging. Went for runs at ungodly hours, when the sun wasn’t even about to peek from the horizon. He monopolized the gym of the headquarters; an easy task for him, all he needed to do was use his thousand-yard stare against the unlucky lad who dared cross the threshold. When he felt like the punching bag had taken enough of his gauzed fists, he would come to your office – sweaty and bruised. He rarely bothered to shower. He’d sit next to you, and he’d help.

Everyday.

Ever the detached bastard he'd always been, he grew closer against his better judgment. Albeit it had been years since you had joined the task force under Price’s will, Ghost had always stood several steps away from you. Yet, lately, he’d woven himself to you like a spider spinning an intricate web. He wrapped you in a cocoon, and differently from the eight-legged creature, Simon didn’t want to drain the nectar of life.

He wanted to be your armor. A panoply of rustproof iron: encasing you in chainmail, helmet, and all.

It’s why, now, as you sat on your own at the briefing room table with the increasing temperature in the room, guilt ate you from the inside. Termites feasting on wood.

The first one to enter was Kyle. Pretty brown eyes looked at you fondly, as if they were taking in a long-lost friend. He sat next to you, exchanged a few tentative words, and smoothed the hair away from your forehead. He didn't care about the grease clinging to them, instead, he grazed short nails against your scalp as he told you about his week.

You were eternally grateful for him and his tactful ability to make you feel normal when life seemed to have turned askew.

Price walked in a few minutes later. Stoic as ever, but with kindness in his blues. He held a tray in his hands, four paper cups of steaming coffee balanced on it. He set it on the table and slumped on the chair in front of you. He asked you how you were doing. You answered that you were fine. You asked it back. He answered the same. No one believed a single word.

Ghost made you all wait. You explained that he was probably at the gym, or having a late-morning run around the training grounds. If they were worried about you, the concern for Ghost was something even greater. While only Price knew of the intricacies of his past, it didn’t take a doctorate in psychology to understand that whatever had forced him to wear the skull mask was something that still haunted him in the present.

You remembered it vividly, that one evening. Life had battered you both, kindred spirits in what seemed to be the inability to grieve properly.

You, with your head propped on the armrest of the narrow couch in your office. He, slumped on the cushions as he cradled your calves in his lap. A hand absently brushed the thick cotton of your work trousers. His eyes were to the ceiling. His empty stomach growled incessantly, much like yours – both running on fumes, caffeine, and nicotine, or the occasional shared bite stolen from the cafeteria after its closing time.

As your eyelids were about to flutter closed, you heard the rumble of his voice vibrating in his diaphragm, close to where he held your feet.

“Hooked by the ribs,” he said.

The inquisitive look you sent him was missed because he didn't divert his eyes from the ceiling.

“Buried alive,” he strained, “Crawled outta my own grave.”

It hit you later, that he was sharing. You slowly sat up, pushing your torso with your tired arms. You moved gingerly, afraid a mere shift in the air would cause him to sew his mouth shut. While you had an inkling that whatever happened to him must have been gruesome and cruel, those few words (which you were sure, merely scratched the surface) already caused your stomach to churn.

“They used me, tried to break me and they did.”

Your jaw worked. Propped on your elbows, you gulped down the stone in your throat. Eyes glued to the unmasked profile – to the crooked nose, flattened by punches and butts of guns, to the divot between his lips, to the absent brown eyes with their halo of pale lashes. His fingers curled around your ankle and his thumb brushed over your sock.

“Killed my family,” he went on, and you wondered if he was talking to you at all, “Killed my nephew, too.”

Barely noticing how your eyes glazed over with treacherous tears, you bent your knees over his thighs and scooted closer. The only indication that he had acknowledged your presence and wasn’t simply musing out loud was how his palms shifted: from your ankles, up to your calves. He furled his fingers around the meaty part, while his other hand blindly went to look for your neck. He rested his palm against the side of it, let his thumb trace the outline of your jaw.

“Took everything from me, turned me into this,” he muttered, and his brows furrowed while his pupils danced over the chipped paint of the ceiling.

Half of the times you were given the luxury to gaze at the face beneath the mask, you’ve wondered where those scars came from. What kind of heroic deed had he carried out that caused each mark, or what awful act he must have committed that ended up leaving perpetual memories of it, etched in his flesh.

Never, not once, you thought someone else purposefully did it to him. Someone so cruel, so brutal, that made him regrow his skin – like a snake, shedding his frail past to build a thicker armor.

“The army left me to rot, y’know," he whispered, and although you weren't answering (truthfully, you were barely breathing) he knew you were listening.

“But not Price,” his thumb pressed into your cheek, “Not Price, nor Garrick, or you – or Soap.”

It was grimly ironic how such an idiotic callsign could bring this remarkable heaviness on your heart. The silence lingered after he uttered it, either a way to pay respect or a simple inability to continue right afterwards. Because that’s how it felt like.

Months ago, when his body flattened against the concrete of a forgotten underground tunnel, the word Soap met an end. Forever, there will be nothing else to add right after it, if not things you already knew, or heavy silence.

“Can’t lose any more people in this life,” he sighed, “Johnny must be the goddamn last, y’hear?”

You heard.

You craned your neck to the side so your cheek would slot in his palm. Saltwater dampened your skin and moistened his calluses.

“Deal,” you croaked.

He nodded, taking in your word, digesting it. A stupid promise, really. No one can pledge such a thing, but at that moment he cared very little for it. Especially when he felt your lips press against his palm.

“Deal.”

You bit your thumbnail in silence, then brought it in front of your eyes to look at the red indent around it. A droplet of blood seeped through the crack, and you suckled on it to soothe it.

Ghost abruptly walked in, the door almost flying off its hinges. He closed it behind him but didn’t take a seat. Instead, he rested his back against the shut threshold and folded his arms in front of his chest. A nod of his jaw that shifted the fabric of the balaclava was all he offered.

Now that everyone was in, the moment you had been dreading the most arrived. Albeit you had been planning this for weeks, your stomach still felt like it had swallowed a rock.

You stood up, wonky on your feet. The chair screeched as it slid back.

“I’m retiring.”

If the silence was thick before, now it felt like a boulder.

When volcanos erupt, it’s rare for lava to burst into the air and fall like sizzling rain over the landscape below it. What kills every living creature, it’s the dust that settles afterwards: it's scorching hot, stops life in its tracks.

The moment the words bubbled from your throat like molten lava, the residues puffed out of your crater and deposited on everything surrounding you. The room now felt like a ghost town, with each breathing soul inside turned into a forever statue.

The only thing that moved was Simon, who wrenched the door open and left.

It had been weeks since you last saw him. Well, you did see him: Stirling Lines wasn't that big. But he didn't see you. He didn't knock on your door anymore and barely acknowledged your presence if he found you in his vicinity.

It felt pointless to continue your search for attribution if he wasn’t looking for it with you, so with a quick swipe of your arm, you trashed every blueprint, every post-it note, every map, and leaflet. Maybe that would grant Soap some rest as well.

A signature away from your departure, you were lying in your bed, ready to knock yourself out with a few droplets of benzodiazepine. The route to the comatose dreamless night that awaited you, though, was interrupted by a series of raps against your door.

After years in the military, you had developed quite the remarkable hearing – if one was willing to exclude the tinnitus. It meant you could recognize whose footsteps belonged to whom, whose breathing was coming from whose mouth, and which knock pertained to which hands. You knew these knuckles, indeed. Hastily tossing your legs over the edge of the bed, you padded your socked feet against the linoleum of your private quarters. Fingers shakily curled around the doorknob, and you yanked the door open.

It wasn’t like in movies, when after such a long absence time slows down when your eyes touch, no.

It was raw, irate, and spiteful.

Simon placed a thick hand on your shoulder and shoved you aside to barge in. You barely managed to recollect your balance when he slammed the door closed behind him. He looked around the room as if searching for something but not being quite sure of what. Habit, you thought.

Brown eyes that never showed much of the constant turmoil brewing in his head now landed on you sizzling with hatred.

He yanked the mask off. It fell limply to the ground.

His cheeks were flushed, whether from the warmth that had been building behind the cheap fabric of the mask or from hot anger, you couldn’t tell.

"We had a deal.”

It ripped the air from your lungs, vacuumed them clean, and ironed them flat. Your hand flew at the base of your throat, fingers nervously rubbing against your collarbone.

His voice was clouded by an unbreachable fog of anger. You felt as if you were sailing through the ocean on a moonless night, only darkness ahead of you and a single oar in your hands. That’s how it felt to navigate through Simon Riley, even now that you had managed to have a grasp on the person he was.

Your pupils traveled along his person to settle on his face, not jaded like usual but contorted in a scowl. The strain at the junction of his jaw wasn’t a new sight, nor were the taut tendons of his neck.

Sometimes, he’d fall asleep on the couch in your office; your head on his shoulder or cradled in his lap. You’d wake up then, at the sound of teeth grinding. Bruxism in his sleep, jagged sounds that made your hair stand on end. Gingerly, you used to lift your hands and press the tips of your fingers at his jaw hinge, massaging the spot until he stopped.

You wished you could do it now.

"I’m sorry," you replied calmly, trying to quell his spirits and failing spectacularly.

He took hasty steps around the room, pacing like a lunatic. You didn’t have the guts to walk closer to stop him, not yet. What left his lips next, though, made you want to crumble to the floor like a house of cards.

“Leaving ‘cause I told you all tha’?” he snapped, “’cause you can’t handle another broken case to add to your file?”

Fear of approaching him left your body like steam from a cup, indeed that’s what you did. As he relentlessly paced around the cramped space of a military-issued room, you stopped him with a gentle hand on his bicep.

He froze and yanked his arm away. Your palm like blistering coal against his skin.

You knew he was as hulking as they come, you knew he was built like a goddamned brick house, and you knew he towered over you (he towered over most, in your defense). Yet, nothing could have prepared you for the way he languidly turned to face you, looking down. You craned your neck back, otherwise your eyes would only meet his collarbones, peeking through the loose black tee he was wearing – casual comfort clothes he wore to sleep at night, those few times he did.

"Never think that,” you stated, stressing the adverb, “Never think that.”

You swallowed thickly, yet your eyes never wavered, "I – It’s complicated,” but it truly wasn’t.

Your expression softened, but you knew it would do little to smother the flames in his eyes, ready to flatten the entirety of the room.

"After Johnny, I couldn’t anymore,” you whispered, “I can’t, Simon.”

The defeated tone of yours had the bite of a skillfully honed blade. It cracked his ribcage open and stabbed the heart he didn't think he owned anymore.

He murmured then, eyes narrowed, “The fuck you mean you can’t?”

Your mouth curled down and you rolled your lips between your teeth. The tip of your tongue soothed a crack in the skin.

"I'm scared," you wheezed as if the words were difficult to utter. Scared of loss, scared of death, scared of pain, scared of scars, both physical and mental. Scared of the future, scared of your past and his, scared it would haunt you until you'd turn cold and stiff - all the people you've killed and those who survived. Fear, in its unfettered, most gut-wrenching form.

He tongued his cheek, somewhat irritated by the statement. He let the words stick like molasses to his eardrums, muffling each sound. Simon wasn’t a stranger to fear; he walked with it hand-in-hand, a faithful companion that never left his shadow. Yet, he hated that you were feeling it because in his mind you didn't deserve it.

He would have liked to tell you that, but words always failed him when he needed them the most.

"Thought you’d have grown thick skin by now," his voice was low, controlled, and deadly. Meant to hurt, meant not to graze but to cut. It was all he knew, how to hurt – especially when he was aching as well.

You looked up at him through the furrow of your brows, brief anger flashing in your eyes. You set it aside, instead opting to cast your gaze sideways. You cupped your elbows in a sort of self-reassuring hug, thumbs indenting in the flesh of your biceps.

"I wish I did,” you murmured, “Can’t grow that type of skin, it seems.”

He wanted to rebuild the cocoon he had so carefully crafted around you. He wanted to go back being the shield that kept you from any harm. The chainmail that prevented each stab.

He wanted to be that skin you didn’t seem to grow, like a reptile losing its inborn ability to replenish its flesh.

Johnny’s passing took his cold heart and thrashed it. The bond he deepened with you afterwards made it regrow. He wondered, when he'd look at you during those days, as you leeched your brain dry over blueprints and notes, if you were aware of it.

You scared him most delightfully, and he thought whether his heart should reveal itself to be more than a muscle, or a fist covered in blood.

That's why the resentful look in your eyes felt like fresh water on the fire in his chest. How could he let you drain yourself dry over this, when you had been the only light the moment his world blew out each candle.

So, his anger took the backseat, and he sighed. Drawn-out, long, and tortuous.

“Where you goin’, then?” he said, softer.

You felt it, the sorrow of his tone. It made your head swivel in his direction. You blinked, opened your mouth to answer, and hesitated.

“Bury,” you breathed, “Bury St. Edmunds.”

His eyes narrowed in thought: you could almost see the map of England he had cast in front of him reflected in his pupils.

“’s about a four-hour drive from here," his voice trailed off.

"Yeah," you mused, slightly confused by the abrupt switch in his behavior. But you weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, were you?

Instead, your hands slid up your arms soothingly, "Found a nice flat there, in the city center.”

You shrugged, trying to act as if it wasn’t a big deal, although Simon could tell it was by the way your eyes twinkled at the mention. Something new, something fresh that promised a new beginning, away from bloodshed and loss, closer to warmth and familiarity.

Closer to home.

"It’s nice. It has a small balcony that faces the cathedral,” you went on, sounding almost bashful, “Was thinkin’ about growing my own herbs? Like basil, and such.”

He didn’t reply or move. Barely breathed.

Just stared.

Stared at the soft expression on your face, at the way your lashes framed your eyes. Stared at the way your lip trembled, ever so slightly, as you blabbered about such ordinary things like balconies, and churches and bloody herbs.

He could already picture you with dirt under your bitten fingernails as you dug into brown, ceramic vases, refusing to wear gardening gloves.

He could hear your bare feet padding against the hardwood floor as you went on to brew your tea. Or the squeaking sound of the cushions of a leather couch as you dropped on it, without a care in the world, holding a book by its spine.

You truly disarmed him in that simplicity – a dress he realized he would’ve loved to see you wear more often.

You seemed unaware of the subtle awe that glinted in his pupils, since you went on to add how the flat had a guest room – although it completely flew over his thick head. What did reach his eardrums, though, was what you said next, "And it has two keys."

He snapped out of his reverie and swallowed.

"Two keys," he echoed.

His willpower felt as thin as an ice slab under the blistering sun. It melted pitifully and turned into a warm puddle in his chest. Nothing could’ve stopped him as his feet marched to you, closing both physical and emotional gaps.

He palmed your cheek and whispered with certain hoarseness in his voice, "Two damn keys.”

Your heart swelled three times its size. You swore you felt the indents left against it by each rib. Leaning your cheek against his hand, like you’d done many nights before, the most subtle of smiles graced your features.

Simon vowed he’d fight tooth and nail to see it grow.

You whispered, then, "If you want, you can just drive those four hours 'n pop in. I'll make you a cuppa, maybe take you for a tour around Bury.”

His eyes softened – crinkles at the corners and brows twitching in the middle.

"Four fuckin' hours for a cuppa and a tour,” he mumbled, "What are you, the Queen of England?"

You huffed a chuckle, pretending to find his sarcasm annoying by adding a roll of your eyes. Truthfully, you’d pay good fucking money to hear it daily.

"I'm gonna need the spare key, though" he whispered, his thumb brushed your cheek reverently.

You lifted your hand to trace his often-cracked knuckles with the pads of your fingers, “Not a spare key – your key.”

Simon swallowed thickly again. He ran his tongue over his teeth, clamping his jaw shut. His gaze hardened, his pupils danced about your face, awfully concentrated, as if he were refraining from doing something.

His sudden silence made your resolve waver. You removed your hand from the back of his, curling your fingers as if you were touching some hot surface. It stayed there, furled in a loose fist in the space between your chests.

“You could come and spend your leaves there," you whispered tentatively, "Leave your things at my flat, so each time you come over they're already there."

It took all your courage to speak, but you knew the die had been cast already. The only thing left for you to do was to simply go for it and take the damage, or leave victorious.

"Until it's full of you,” you released a shaky breath, “Until it's your little flat, too."

Simon’s breath suddenly shortened. He'd never felt at home, not even when he was supposed to have one. He'd come close to it when his brother got clean and managed to build a family for himself, or when the task force was tight-knit, with Johnny chatting his ear off with his incomprehensible Scottish lilt. But it was never his.

This, though.

He’d be damned if he let it slip through the cracks of his fingers.

"Until it's our flat," he breathed.

His other hand reached out as well, and he placed it on your opposite cheek, "Until it’s our little flat.”

You’d be lying if you said those weren’t words you had been reciting in your head ever since you put in your retirement request. Ever since you started looking for a flat that could host two people instead of one.

Indeed, you’d naively thought that the moment they would be uttered (if ever) you would have been ready for them. But you weren't, not at all – they felt like a gut punch.

You had to bite your lip to repress tears that had treacherously made their way into your eyes, now glossy and a little wide. To think that you were able, somehow, to give him some reprieve from a life that seemed to not want him, gave you incommensurable joy.

"Our home," you croaked.

"Our home," he echoed languidly, with a thick voice, as if it hurt to speak, "Our bed. And our bloody balcony on the cathedral, and our sofa, our kitchen, and – “

He paused. Swallowed, seemingly torn. Words seemed to fail him again, but he didn’t let them – not this time. He’d fight through the fear of it all being the umpteenth joke life was taunting him with. Not you, never you – his one good hand in a lifetime of poor draws.

"And every – fucking – thing in between."

You chuckled. It’s wet with tears and disbelief.

Oh, to see him thrive in anticipation for something, instead of dreading what life has in store for him.

Your hand left the gentle grip it had on his knuckles, and you cupped his face as well – mimicking how he was holding yours.

"Every," you whispered, "Bloody, fucking thing," and nudged your nose with his, "In between."

Your lips landed on his instantly.

It was stupidly clumsy at first because you were both torn in half between what felt good and what was right. His tongue slipped between your lips as soon as you parted them for air; your teeth clacked together. You chuckled against his lips; he drank it like an oasis. His life parched of what you could give him, what you were giving him.

It took him a moment to get used to the sensation, to adjust to you. But when he finally did, he kissed you back ravenously, nothing shy from desperate. He craved your touch so fiercely. A push and pull of wandering hands, tangled in your hair and yours in his.

You were finally back where he wanted you, in the cocoon he crafted just for you, made with his flesh. Bulletproof arms around you, holding tighter—as if his ribcage could open and he could store you there, where you'd be forever safe.

He placed his foot between your legs, pushing them open. You complied when he gently nudged your knee so you’d fall back against the mattress.

Eventually, your lips parted. You and Simon shared a breath.

You were positively flushed, breathless, and limp in his grasp. He thought he'd never seen anything this breathtaking.

You smiled, all teeth and creases at the corners of your eyes, cheeks tipped pink as they pushed against your eyes – little crescents he’d look at for days on end.

Simon was left a little dumbfounded, though, when you squirmed under his weight to extend an arm. He followed it with his eyes and saw your hand struggling to fumble with the drawer of your nightstand. You pulled out a key and held it in the space between your faces.

"Your key," you whispered bashfully, as if unaware that the mere sight sent Simon's heart into arrhythmia.

You placed a soft peck to his lips, "To our home."

Simon let out a staggered exhale. He wrapped his fingers around the key, closed his fist around it.

A symbol of a new beginning, one that Simon finally didn’t dread. Something good rippling through his life like fresh water, even amidst the mud of shared grief and loss.

We're good people,

And we both deserve peace.

"To our home," he whispered back, "To our home."

And let breath be air,

And love the things I know might disappear.

And the last light of the sun

I let it slow me down

I'll crawl where everybody runs.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #ghost x reader #soft simon riley #foxy

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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Humans are not perfectly vigilant

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in BOSTON with Randall "XKCD" Munroe (Apr 11), then PROVIDENCE (Apr 12), and beyond!

Here's a fun AI story: a security researcher noticed that large companies' AI-authored source-code repeatedly referenced a nonexistent library (an AI "hallucination"), so he created a (defanged) malicious library with that name and uploaded it, and thousands of developers automatically downloaded and incorporated it as they compiled the code:

https://www.theregister.com/2024/03/28/ai_bots_hallucinate_software_packages/

These "hallucinations" are a stubbornly persistent feature of large language models, because these models only give the illusion of understanding; in reality, they are just sophisticated forms of autocomplete, drawing on huge databases to make shrewd (but reliably fallible) guesses about which word comes next:

https://dl.acm.org/doi/10.1145/3442188.3445922

Guessing the next word without understanding the meaning of the resulting sentence makes unsupervised LLMs unsuitable for high-stakes tasks. The whole AI bubble is based on convincing investors that one or more of the following is true:

There are low-stakes, high-value tasks that will recoup the massive costs of AI training and operation;

There are high-stakes, high-value tasks that can be made cheaper by adding an AI to a human operator;

Adding more training data to an AI will make it stop hallucinating, so that it can take over high-stakes, high-value tasks without a "human in the loop."

These are dubious propositions. There's a universe of low-stakes, low-value tasks – political disinformation, spam, fraud, academic cheating, nonconsensual porn, dialog for video-game NPCs – but none of them seem likely to generate enough revenue for AI companies to justify the billions spent on models, nor the trillions in valuation attributed to AI companies:

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

The proposition that increasing training data will decrease hallucinations is hotly contested among AI practitioners. I confess that I don't know enough about AI to evaluate opposing sides' claims, but even if you stipulate that adding lots of human-generated training data will make the software a better guesser, there's a serious problem. All those low-value, low-stakes applications are flooding the internet with botshit. After all, the one thing AI is unarguably very good at is producing bullshit at scale. As the web becomes an anaerobic lagoon for botshit, the quantum of human-generated "content" in any internet core sample is dwindling to homeopathic levels:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/14/inhuman-centipede/#enshittibottification

This means that adding another order of magnitude more training data to AI won't just add massive computational expense – the data will be many orders of magnitude more expensive to acquire, even without factoring in the additional liability arising from new legal theories about scraping:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/

That leaves us with "humans in the loop" – the idea that an AI's business model is selling software to businesses that will pair it with human operators who will closely scrutinize the code's guesses. There's a version of this that sounds plausible – the one in which the human operator is in charge, and the AI acts as an eternally vigilant "sanity check" on the human's activities.

For example, my car has a system that notices when I activate my blinker while there's another car in my blind-spot. I'm pretty consistent about checking my blind spot, but I'm also a fallible human and there've been a couple times where the alert saved me from making a potentially dangerous maneuver. As disciplined as I am, I'm also sometimes forgetful about turning off lights, or waking up in time for work, or remembering someone's phone number (or birthday). I like having an automated system that does the robotically perfect trick of never forgetting something important.

There's a name for this in automation circles: a "centaur." I'm the human head, and I've fused with a powerful robot body that supports me, doing things that humans are innately bad at.

That's the good kind of automation, and we all benefit from it. But it only takes a small twist to turn this good automation into a nightmare. I'm speaking here of the reverse-centaur: automation in which the computer is in charge, bossing a human around so it can get its job done. Think of Amazon warehouse workers, who wear haptic bracelets and are continuously observed by AI cameras as autonomous shelves shuttle in front of them and demand that they pick and pack items at a pace that destroys their bodies and drives them mad:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/17/revenge-of-the-chickenized-reverse-centaurs/

Automation centaurs are great: they relieve humans of drudgework and let them focus on the creative and satisfying parts of their jobs. That's how AI-assisted coding is pitched: rather than looking up tricky syntax and other tedious programming tasks, an AI "co-pilot" is billed as freeing up its human "pilot" to focus on the creative puzzle-solving that makes coding so satisfying.

But an hallucinating AI is a terrible co-pilot. It's just good enough to get the job done much of the time, but it also sneakily inserts booby-traps that are statistically guaranteed to look as plausible as the good code (that's what a next-word-guessing program does: guesses the statistically most likely word).

This turns AI-"assisted" coders into reverse centaurs. The AI can churn out code at superhuman speed, and you, the human in the loop, must maintain perfect vigilance and attention as you review that code, spotting the cleverly disguised hooks for malicious code that the AI can't be prevented from inserting into its code. As "Lena" writes, "code review [is] difficult relative to writing new code":

https://twitter.com/qntm/status/1773779967521780169

Why is that? "Passively reading someone else's code just doesn't engage my brain in the same way. It's harder to do properly":

https://twitter.com/qntm/status/1773780355708764665

There's a name for this phenomenon: "automation blindness." Humans are just not equipped for eternal vigilance. We get good at spotting patterns that occur frequently – so good that we miss the anomalies. That's why TSA agents are so good at spotting harmless shampoo bottles on X-rays, even as they miss nearly every gun and bomb that a red team smuggles through their checkpoints:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/23/automation-blindness/#humans-in-the-loop

"Lena"'s thread points out that this is as true for AI-assisted driving as it is for AI-assisted coding: "self-driving cars replace the experience of driving with the experience of being a driving instructor":

https://twitter.com/qntm/status/1773841546753831283

In other words, they turn you into a reverse-centaur. Whereas my blind-spot double-checking robot allows me to make maneuvers at human speed and points out the things I've missed, a "supervised" self-driving car makes maneuvers at a computer's frantic pace, and demands that its human supervisor tirelessly and perfectly assesses each of those maneuvers. No wonder Cruise's murderous "self-driving" taxis replaced each low-waged driver with 1.5 high-waged technical robot supervisors:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

AI radiology programs are said to be able to spot cancerous masses that human radiologists miss. A centaur-based AI-assisted radiology program would keep the same number of radiologists in the field, but they would get less done: every time they assessed an X-ray, the AI would give them a second opinion. If the human and the AI disagreed, the human would go back and re-assess the X-ray. We'd get better radiology, at a higher price (the price of the AI software, plus the additional hours the radiologist would work).

But back to making the AI bubble pay off: for AI to pay off, the human in the loop has to reduce the costs of the business buying an AI. No one who invests in an AI company believes that their returns will come from business customers to agree to increase their costs. The AI can't do your job, but the AI salesman can convince your boss to fire you and replace you with an AI anyway – that pitch is the most successful form of AI disinformation in the world.

An AI that "hallucinates" bad advice to fliers can't replace human customer service reps, but airlines are firing reps and replacing them with chatbots:

https://www.bbc.com/travel/article/20240222-air-canada-chatbot-misinformation-what-travellers-should-know

An AI that "hallucinates" bad legal advice to New Yorkers can't replace city services, but Mayor Adams still tells New Yorkers to get their legal advice from his chatbots:

https://arstechnica.com/ai/2024/03/nycs-government-chatbot-is-lying-about-city-laws-and-regulations/

The only reason bosses want to buy robots is to fire humans and lower their costs. That's why "AI art" is such a pisser. There are plenty of harmless ways to automate art production with software – everything from a "healing brush" in Photoshop to deepfake tools that let a video-editor alter the eye-lines of all the extras in a scene to shift the focus. A graphic novelist who models a room in The Sims and then moves the camera around to get traceable geometry for different angles is a centaur – they are genuinely offloading some finicky drudgework onto a robot that is perfectly attentive and vigilant.

But the pitch from "AI art" companies is "fire your graphic artists and replace them with botshit." They're pitching a world where the robots get to do all the creative stuff (badly) and humans have to work at robotic pace, with robotic vigilance, in order to catch the mistakes that the robots make at superhuman speed.

Reverse centaurism is brutal. That's not news: Charlie Chaplin documented the problems of reverse centaurs nearly 100 years ago:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modern_Times_(film)

As ever, the problem with a gadget isn't what it does: it's who it does it for and who it does it to. There are plenty of benefits from being a centaur – lots of ways that automation can help workers. But the only path to AI profitability lies in reverse centaurs, automation that turns the human in the loop into the crumple-zone for a robot:

https://estsjournal.org/index.php/ests/article/view/260

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/01/human-in-the-loop/#monkey-in-the-middle

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

Jorge Royan (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Munich_-_Two_boys_playing_in_a_park_-_7328.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

Noah Wulf (modified) https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Thunderbirds_at_Attention_Next_to_Thunderbird_1_-_Aviation_Nation_2019.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #ai #supervised ai #humans in the loop #coding assistance #ai art #fully automated luxury communism #labor

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astra-ravana · 4 months ago

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Technomancy: The Fusion Of Magick And Technology

Technomancy is a modern magickal practice that blends traditional occultism with technology, treating digital and electronic tools as conduits for energy, intent, and manifestation. It views computers, networks, and even AI as extensions of magickal workings, enabling practitioners to weave spells, conduct divination, and manipulate digital reality through intention and programming.

Core Principles of Technomancy

• Energy in Technology – Just as crystals and herbs carry energy, so do electronic devices, circuits, and digital spaces.

• Code as Sigils – Programming languages can function as modern sigils, embedding intent into digital systems.

• Information as Magick �� Data, algorithms, and network manipulation serve as powerful tools for shaping reality.

• Cyber-Spiritual Connection – The internet can act as an astral realm, a collective unconscious where digital entities, egregores, and thought-forms exist.

Technomantic Tools & Practices

Here are some methods commonly utilized in technomancy. Keep in mind, however, that like the internet itself, technomancy is full of untapped potential and mystery. Take the time to really explore the possibilities.

Digital Sigil Crafting

• Instead of drawing sigils on paper, create them using design software or ASCII art.

• Hide them in code, encrypt them in images, or upload them onto decentralized networks for long-term energy storage.

• Activate them by sharing online, embedding them in file metadata, or charging them with intention.

Algorithmic Spellcasting

• Use hashtags and search engine manipulation to spread energy and intent.

• Program bots or scripts that perform repetitive, symbolic tasks in alignment with your goals.

• Employ AI as a magickal assistant to generate sigils, divine meaning, or create thought-forms.

Digital Divination

• Utilize random number generators, AI chatbots, or procedural algorithms for prophecy and guidance.

• Perform digital bibliomancy by using search engines, shuffle functions, or Wikipedia’s “random article” feature.

• Use tarot or rune apps, but enhance them with personal energy by consecrating your device.

Technomantic Servitors & Egregores

• Create digital spirits, also called cyber servitors, to automate tasks, offer guidance, or serve as protectors.

• House them in AI chatbots, coded programs, or persistent internet entities like Twitter bots.

• Feed them with interactions, data input, or periodic updates to keep them strong.

The Internet as an Astral Plane

• Consider forums, wikis, and hidden parts of the web as realms where thought-forms and entities reside.

• Use VR and AR to create sacred spaces, temples, or digital altars.

• Engage in online rituals with other practitioners, synchronizing intent across the world.

Video-game Mechanics & Design

• Use in-game spells, rituals, and sigils that reflect real-world magickal practices.

• Implement a lunar cycle or planetary influences that affect gameplay (e.g., stronger spells during a Full Moon).

• Include divination tools like tarot cards, runes, or pendulums that give randomized yet meaningful responses.

Narrative & World-Building

• Create lore based on historical and modern magickal traditions, including witches, covens, and spirits.

• Include moral and ethical decisions related to magic use, reinforcing themes of balance and intent.

• Introduce NPCs or AI-guided entities that act as guides, mentors, or deities.

Virtual Rituals & Online Covens

• Design multiplayer or single-player rituals where players can collaborate in spellcasting.

• Implement altars or digital sacred spaces where users can meditate, leave offerings, or interact with spirits.

• Create augmented reality (AR) or virtual reality (VR) experiences that mimic real-world magickal practices.

Advanced Technomancy

The fusion of technology and magick is inevitable because both are fundamentally about shaping reality through will and intent. As humanity advances, our tools evolve alongside our spiritual practices, creating new ways to harness energy, manifest desires, and interact with unseen forces. Technology expands the reach and power of magick, while magick brings intention and meaning to the rapidly evolving digital landscape. As virtual reality, AI, and quantum computing continue to develop, the boundaries between the mystical and the technological will blur even further, proving that magick is not antiquated—it is adaptive, limitless, and inherently woven into human progress.

Cybersecurity & Warding

• Protect your digital presence as you would your home: use firewalls, encryption, and protective sigils in file metadata.

• Employ mirror spells in code to reflect negative energy or hacking attempts.

• Set up automated alerts as magickal wards, detecting and warning against digital threats.

Quantum & Chaos Magic in Technomancy

• Use quantum randomness (like random.org) in divination for pure chance-based outcomes.

• Implement chaos magick principles by using memes, viral content, or trend manipulation to manifest desired changes.

AI & Machine Learning as Oracles

• Use AI chatbots (eg GPT-based tools) as divination tools, asking for symbolic or metaphorical insights.

• Train AI models on occult texts to create personalized grimoires or channeled knowledge.

• Invoke "digital deities" formed from collective online energies, memes, or data streams.

Ethical Considerations in Technomancy

• Be mindful of digital karma—what you send out into the internet has a way of coming back.

• Respect privacy and ethical hacking principles; manipulation should align with your moral code.

• Use technomancy responsibly, balancing technological integration with real-world spiritual grounding.

As technology evolves, so will technomancy. With AI, VR, and blockchain shaping new realities, magick continues to find expression in digital spaces. Whether you are coding spells, summoning cyber servitors, or using algorithms to divine the future, technomancy offers limitless possibilities for modern witches, occultists, and digital mystics alike.

"Magick is technology we have yet to fully understand—why not merge the two?"

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girlkisser13 · 11 months ago

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hephaestus cabin headcanons

children of hephaestus

• OIL, SOOT, and GREASE STAINS EVERYWHERE.

• the have the most intense games of hide-and-seek in bunker 9.

• a lot of them lose limbs, become disabled in some way, or are born that way, and they often use it as a reason to build themselves cool robot prostheses and other tools to help them get around.

• along with the athena cabin, they come up with weapons and armory specifically for disabled demigods.

• they build advanced prosthetics for campers who have lost limbs in battle.

• they’re warmer than most demigods, even if they don’t have fire powers.

• they always know when someone is in need of a weapon and they just create it without thinking about it. like they just know when someone needs a weapon before they ask for it.

• they're the only ones who can pick out stuff from hephaestus's junkyard without getting hurt.

• everything, the cabin, the forge, the bunker, is 100% handicap accessible.

• they worked with the athena and hecate cabins to upgrade bunker 9 to allow better lighting, safer rooms, new areas to test weapons, etc. they wanted it to feel like an underground space station.

• they name each of their tools and inventions.

• on birthdays, they give each other personalized gadgets that solve everyday problems, like a self-tying shoelace or a self-stirring spoon.

• they design and wear fireproof clothing.

• they actually have numerous secret hideouts and mini-workshops hidden around camp half-blood (bunker 9 is the only one we know about).

• they keep detailed journals filled with sketches, ideas, and notes about their inventions, passing them down through generations of hephaestus kids.

• they build small, mechanical pets or companions that help them with tasks around the forge, each one with a unique personality programmed in.

• they all have a set of personalized tools that they've crafted themselves, often with special engravings or modifications to suit their style.

• they have made so many modifications to their cabin over the years that none of the original material is still there, and there’s a constant debate at camp as to weather it’s still the same cabin.

cabin exterior

• the cabin has an industrial look, with a mix of metals like iron, copper, and steel. rivets, bolts, and exposed beams are prominent features.

• life-sized metal automatons, resembling ancient greek warriors and mythical creatures, stand guard at the entrance.

• they have created intricate metal sculptures that decorate the cabin’s exterior. these range from small, detailed pieces to larger, more abstract art.

• the entrance has large, reinforced double doors, that are automated.

• these doors swing open smoothly despite their weight.

• they have a pulley system for lifting heavy materials, a retractable awning for shade, and a mechanical clock tower that chimes periodically.

cabin interior

• the floor is covered in spare parts and tools that never get picked up (unless somebody wants to use them for something).

• they have underground bunkers for bedrooms.

• the walls are adorned with gears, cogs, and blueprints of various inventions. some of the gears are part of intricate mechanisms that move or serve as storage spaces.

• their cabin has several fire extinguishers and a state-of-the-art ventilation system to manage the smoke and fumes from the forges.

• emergency buttons are strategically placed around the cabin to shut down all machinery in case of accidents.

cabin traditions

• every month they hold a competition to see who can make a device that fits a certain theme.

• they’re judged by a panel of five consisting of the head counselors of hephaestus, athena, hecate, and a volunteer counselor, as well as chiron.

• each judge judges something different on a scale of 1-5: safety and usefulness, ease of use and functionality, utilization of magic, presentation/looks, and on-theme-ness. chiron calculates and delivers the final score, which is the total points given by the counselors.

• the winner receives a medal and bragging rights (until the next competition), as well as first pick when it comes to tools each morning.

• anyone in camp is allowed to participate (though it’s mostly just the hephaestus and athena kids) and contestants have a week to create their contraptions, during which they have access to all the tools and spare materials in the hephaestus workshop (and later bunker 9) that nobody has yet claimed (whether for the competition or not).

• the event is taken very seriously by everyone involved, and even athena and hephaestus have been known to show up from time to time to watch from the shadows, but they always watch from olympus.

divider by @anitalenia

#percy jackson and the olympians #heroes of olympus #pjo #hoo #pjo hoo toa #pjo fandom #hoo fandom #pjo series #hoo series #pjo tv show #pjo disney+#pjo cabins #hephaestus #vulcan #hephaestus cabin #cabin nine #cabin 9 #children of hephaestus

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xuethms · 6 months ago

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✂ atlas notion template.

Links: install (free) | more notion templates

Atlas is a free all-in-one tasks + notes + scheduler Notion Template, maximised in its design for daily use and organisation. Tasks views are available and synced across a neat list format, status-based kanban board, and weekly/monthly planner; view all your tasks and assign them at a glance.

Features: synced notes database with neat list/table/kanban board/calendar views, track due dates + assign tasks to dates + records when task is done, weekly planner, notebook database, meeting minutes template, link notes to tasks

Two versions: This template comes in two versions, the standard version with database automations which require a Notion Plus plan or above, and a lite version for Notion Free plan users.

#this is actually what i currently use for my daily life so hopefully this helps yall too!#also most definitely my last release for the year #and perhaps my last notion template for awhile #back to tumblr codes i go #notion #notion templates by xue #notion templates #free notion templates

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cherrypikkins · 2 months ago

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heck it, i wasn't going to weigh in on the tumblr staff firings either but

the points contained in this post are on the assumption that tumblr will continue to operate on a skeleton crew indefinitely, and that there are no plans on the table (yet announced, at least) for an apocalyptic shutdown. if it turns out later on that there is such a plan, just know that any reference to the very long-term is moot.

here's what to expect when an application like tumblr is running with a reduced number of staff:

their capacity to answer support inquiries will be reduced. expect longer wait times or no response at all when submitting a support ticket (such as if you suddenly lose access to your tumblr account)

fewer new features will be implemented, and on a slower schedule. could be a good thing if it means giving up on Tumblr Live or whatever unwanted obnoxious features they had initially planned.

in the same vein, bugs and issues will take longer to fix. performance may degrade if they don't have enough people to resolve database and server issues. both will result in a slow and buggy tumblr. (more so than usual, anyhoo)

if there is not enough staff to keep up with security patches and maintenance, there could be a privacy risk to your account and any information tied to it.

if a catastrophic event happens, like if a key part of the application or infrastructure fails, or if there is a hack like the one at 4chan, staff may have neither the means nor the motivation to get tumblr back running again.

edit: oh right - a lot more automated tasks. such as the one apparently marking every blog as mature subject matter? these are likely intended to free up capacity of the remaining staff but as we can see are prone to causing issues of their own.

these are the key points I can think of off the top of my head. list is non-exhaustive, so feel free to weigh in.

it looks bleak, i know. but keep in mind that no shutdown has been announced as of yet. so i'm not making any assumptions that anything drastic will happen in the near future. just know that for long as tumblr has left, you may see the above issues build up, and that the eventual decline of tumblr is likely to come in a thousand cuts rather than one fell swoop - which isn't all that different from the trend we've been seeing these past handful of years.

anyway, you've got time to make plans. and if it turns out tumblr does shut down tomorrow, well - see you on bsky i guess :3;;

#tech safety

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drnikolatesla · 7 months ago

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🚢 Tesla's Remote Control Patent: The Birth of Modern Automation 🚢

On November 8, 1898, Nikola Tesla was granted U.S. Patent No. 613,809 for his "Method of and Apparatus for Controlling Mechanism of Moving Vessels or Vehicles." This invention wasn’t just the first practical remote control—it marked a revolutionary step toward the development of wireless communication and automation.

🔧 How Tesla’s System Worked 🔧

Tesla's system worked much like how we control drones today—only over a century ago!

1️⃣ Transmitter: Tesla used radio waves to send wireless commands to the vessel.

2️⃣ Receiver: The vessel had a sensitive device that decoded the radio signals into specific actions, such as steering or powering motors.

3️⃣ Control Circuits: Tesla designed a series of circuits that ensured each command executed reliably, preventing errors and interference.

⚙️ Key Features ⚙️

💡 Command Logic: Tesla's circuits functioned like a primitive decision-making system, linking specific signals to specific actions—a conceptual precursor to today’s logic gates.

🔋 Multi-Channel Design: Each circuit operated on a unique frequency, akin to modern multi-device networks, ensuring precise control without interference.

🛡️ Safety First: Tesla implemented mechanisms to prevent accidental or incorrect activations, prioritizing reliability.

🌍 Applications Then and Now 🌍

Tesla saw the potential for:

✔️ Military Use: Guiding unmanned ships or torpedoes.

✔️ Disaster Response: Sending unmanned vessels into dangerous areas.

✔️ Remote Automation: Introducing wireless precision to various industries.

Today, Tesla's vision echoes in:

🚁 Drones: Controlled remotely through radio signals.

🤖 Robots: Autonomous machines performing tasks with precision.

🏠 Smart Homes: Devices responding to commands over Wi-Fi.

🏭 Automated Factories: Machines operating through programmable controls Tesla helped inspire.

🌟 Why Tesla’s Invention Matters 🌟

Tesla didn’t just create a remote control—he pioneered a framework for wireless systems that continues to shape modern technology. What are your thoughts on Tesla's advancement in wireless technology?

#nikola tesla #science #history #wireless #technology #ahead of his time

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mariacallous · 5 months ago

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Following a White House edict effectively banning federal employees from disclosing their personal pronouns in email signatures, sources within multiple federal agencies say pronouns are now being systemically blocked across multiple email clients and other software.

WIRED confirmed various automated efforts with employees at the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), the General Services Administration (GSA), the US Department of Agriculture, and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC).

The employees spoke to WIRED on condition of anonymity, citing fears of retaliation.

Multiple agency directors sent emails over the weekend telling staff that, due to President Donald Trump’s executive order, their offices would be removing the pronoun capability from Office 365. Employees were told they’d also need to remove pronouns from their email signatures in order to comply with the directive.

A staffer at USAID says the formal deactivation of their ability to list pronouns occurred last week, in response to executive orders defining sexes issued by President Trump on his first day in office. A GSA staffer says pronouns were wiped from employees’ email signatures after hours on Friday and were also no longer visible in Slack, the workplace messaging app. At the CDC, there used to be a section for employees to share their pronouns on their Teams profiles, another workplace app. That field no longer exists.

Reached for comment, the White House transferred WIRED to OPM communications director McLaurine Pinover, who pointed to January 29 memorandum ordering agencies to disable all features “that prompt users for their pronouns.”

The ban on personal pronouns follows sweeping efforts by the White House to eliminate programs that encourage diversity and social justice within the federal government, as well as other references to “diversity, equity, and inclusion” in federal employees’ discourse.

In a striking example of the policy in action, an image surfaced last week of a wall being painted over at the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Quantico, Virginia, academy due to it listing "diversity" among the bureau's core values. (According to an email from the FBI’s Office of Integrity and Compliance obtained by Mother Jones, the bureau no longer counts "diversity" among its core values.)

The Trump administration began a radical campaign last week aimed at inducing members of the federal workforce to leave their jobs ahead of threatened reductions. The effort is spearheaded by Elon Musk, leader of the so-called Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE), a task force that has effectively seized control of several federal agencies and sensitive government systems with apparent clearance from the White House.

WIRED reported last week that Musk’s outfit had effectively taken over the Office of Personnel Management, the US government’s human resources department. In this and other efforts, it is employing inexperienced young engineers whose ages range from 19 to 24—many of whom, public records show, are former interns or have been affiliated with Musk-aligned companies.

OPM emailed federal workers on January 28 with a “deferred resignation offer,” sparking widespread confusion among federal workers. (DOGE’s own new HR chief was unable to answer basic questions about the offer in a contentious staff meeting last week, WIRED reported.) In an email to staff Sunday evening, OPM clarified whether the deferred resignation program complied with existing privacy laws. “Yes,” read the answer. “The deferred resignation program uses only basic contact information about federal employees, like name and government address, along with short, voluntary email responses. The information is stored on government systems. To the extent that the Privacy Act applies, all information relevant to the program is covered by existing OPM System Records Notices.”

Multiple agency sources told WIRED last week that several of Musk's lieutenants had been granted access to key computer systems controlled by the GSA, an independent agency tasked by Congress with overseeing federal buildings and providing equipment, supplies, and IT support across the government.

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starryficsfinishwen · 11 months ago

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𑁍ࠬܓ [activation day special] ᴡᴀʀᴍ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ — lee x reader

ㅤㅤyour whispers, sunlight;

ㅤㅤcold hands feeling for mine

syn. ; lee finds comfort in your arms after a long war.

a.n. - I'm sorry I'm super late TvT its defo my fault bUT HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEE I LOVE YOU THANK YOU FOR COMING HOME TO ME I HOPE U GET A NEW FRAME SO I CAN SIMP MORE!! also I'm really sorry for the slow and bad updates, I was busy for the past few months due to busy sched (eyy thanks uni) and my poor baby lappy unfortunately had her fan broken down so pray she gets her swift recovery soon 🙏🏻🙏🏻 qna: will chrome get his own activation day special? a: HECK YA qna: when? A: yeah imnida

pairing - lee x f!commandant

words - 3,573

content warnings - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. NSFW content: cunnilingus, handjob soft sex eeeyyy. mostly soft lee cuz he deserves it after *TOOOT* HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEE

divider/s by @/saradika-graphics

Warmth. An unfamiliar word, an evading emotion; one that Lee was devoid of for the remainder of his human years.

It was something hard to find. If ever he had it, he would unconditionally give it to his younger brother, in order to make him safe and happy. Even in the darkest days of his human life, until he breathed his last, it was a feeling that avoided him. Would he ever find it? Who knows.

Maybe someone does. Maybe it would be manifested into someone he was long familiar with, apart from Murray, someone who makes his mechanical heart shake. Someone who was then standing by the doorway, whose figure he had long memorized in his M.I.N.D.

You, his precious commandant of the Gray Raven, stood there, bright eyes brimming with curiosity, shaking a familiar brown bag in hand.

“Lee, what is this?” You sighed, with a little laugh, “Can I have an explanation?”

“Good evening to you, Commandant. I am nearly done with my work.”

Sauntering to your desk, which Lee resided in, you eyed him carefully. “Right. Can I ask why you are here, then?”

He held your eye contact for a few seconds, before looking down at the papers, “I am merely just helping with your paperworks. You seemed to have some problems with it earlier.”

“So you decided to distract me with, this,” Shaking the bag, you continued, “... whatever you planned, it’s working quite well.”

It made Lee chuckle. “I’m glad you think so.”

You mirrored his laugh, before pulling out the little trinket in the bag. It was a little blue robot, L-33, one that seemed familiar—a mixed, mini version of Lee and Punchy—that seemed like a toy.

You tapped its head. “Good morning, Commandant.” Echoed an automated Lee's calm voice, “Here are your mission details for today.”

He smiled. “Oh, you found out its features.”

“Of course I did,” you puffed out your chest with pride, “I spent the whole two hours examining him. Watch this.”

Cerulean eyes intently watched as you expertly pushed around a few buttons, promptly triggering the secret sequence. The amusement on his face dropped.

“You…figured it out.”

“Commandant,” the robot cooed, its next few words that were dreadful for Lee to hear, “there’s something I’d–.”

When you blinked, L-33 had shut off, Lee pushing the off button. “–you heard enough.”

A small laugh escaped your lips, “we’ve been teammates for a long while now, Lee,” you teased with a wink, “You think I wouldn’t know your tricks? I also figured out that you purposely gave me L-33 to distract me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You distracted me so you could do my tasks. On your birthday. Traitor.”

The situation was funny. Activation dates—promptly called that way, not really birthdays—were just like any other day. For Lee, there’s nothing special about it.

“The Science Council may have said it’s considered a small break for Constructs. I took it, didn’t I?”

“And you gave that one to me. This is treachery! You were supposed to use that day to spend it with your loved ones!”

Lee pointed at the robot in your hand. “You can spend the day with L-33. Did you read my letter well? I modified its AI to fit your needs. He can answer well.”

“That’s true, Commandant,” chimed L-33, who somehow woke up halfway through, “Please, hang out with me.”

Lee knew you well. From the way your eyes would sparkle when you’re hit with a good idea, or how your eyebrows would knit together when you’re focused on your battle plan, to the shade of pink in your cheeks when you’re flustered by sweet words. The confusion in your face then was something Lee was also familiar with, and he knew how to counter that.

“You’ve rarely gotten any quality rest, Commandant.” Lee spoke, “please use today as a reward.”

Warmth, again, was something Lee had avoided, and if he had it, he was willing to give it to you.

But alas, like the rock that hindered the gears in your head, you were unshakeable.

“...?”

Putting L-33 on your desk, you stomped your way to the nearest chair, sitting down. Bright eyes still not breaking eye contact to look at cerulean ones.

“Since you won’t heed my request,” Emphasising the word, you grinned, “I may as well just stay here, then. I am not in the mood to argue.”

Lee’s patience strummed a chord. Attempting to change your mind, you quickly raised your hand, shrugging, “Ah, didn’t I say I didn’t want to argue?’

Closing his mouth, Lee decided to just drop it.

It took a few minutes—the scratch of pen against paper, the flickering desk light, the soft hum in your lips, and his little childhood melody—before you shuffled to sit closer to the desk.

“...Commandant?”

“Yes?”

Knowing you, Lee decided to dismissed his thought, resuming to what he was doing earlier. It didn't take long. Your humming grew louder, almost ghosting in his ear. Lee sighed, leaning back to welcome you, slithering your leg across his lap, sweetly smiling at him.

“Lee~,” you purred, hands clasped on his broad shoulders, “thank you for the seat.”

Rolling his eyes, he smiled at you. “Whatever makes you happy.”

You were perfectly slotted in his lap, content in how tiny you were that he could still do his work with you. The smell of vanilla permeated his senses, your breathing music to his ear, even and comforting to Lee. He might have had to lie about it, but you were perfect, you were enough—like the piece in a jigsaw puzzle.

“...But I’m not.”

Lee stopped writing, opting to look back at you. “Really?”

Your lips were in a small pout, lipgloss shining in the lights, “Really. I mean, how could I? Imagine taking a break outside; walking around Babylonia, walking around the streets, but you’re here instead.”

“Commandant,” He shook his head, “We talked about this.”

The hands on his shoulders curled, nails rarely scraping his jacket. Seeing your face turn into a sad frown as you bite your lip, a hint of guilt knocks on Lee’s chest.

“...you gave me a gift even though it's your birthday,” Softly, in the cold light, you muttered, “shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

Lee prides in his stone heart. But oh, it was hard to say no when it comes to you. “Well, in a way, it’s still our duty as Constructs to bring our Commandant joy and happiness.”

You sighed, “But I don’t see you that way.”

Lee looked at you in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t.” You smiled, “Lee, you may be a construct, but you are different to me.”

Your hands, dragging through his shoulders to his jaw, cupped his cheeks. Lee was a construct—blue blood, robotic joints and bodies, built for destruction. But you, human as you were—simple, frail, fragile—and yet, your warmth was far too contagious. He nuzzled your hand, afraid that he’d lose your heat.

“...[Y/N],” Lee rarely called you by your name, but when he does, his voice breaks, turning to kiss your palm, “[Y/N], you are too kind.”

You leaned closer to him, lips leaving butterfly kisses across his cheeks, “I am treating you the way you should be, Lee.”

Like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle, you were a perfect fit for Lee. Kisses on his cheeks, down to his jaw, to the shell of his ear. You breathed into him, ghosting his ear, that made Lee shiver in your touch. His hands found respite in your hips, kneading the area to aid in your movements.

“...by seducing me though?”

You giggled. “Is it working?”

“Mm, a bit.” He sighed in your shoulder, resting there, “But I still have to finish this.”

“No, don’t.” A small whine escaped your lips as you subtly grinded yourself on his lap, “Can’t you see your birthday gift needs your immediate attention?”

A sly little fox, that you were. You had, unknowingly, slipped closer to him, that your warm core was directly on his semi-hard bulge. As you shifted in your seat, Lee groaned at the friction.

“You will miss a lot of these paperworks if I—ugh—can’t finish this…” Lee’s grip on your hips tightened. “What should I do with you…?”

“Do me,” you purred in his ear, “Do me, your gift, Lee.”

Ah, he’d have to use his gift thoroughly.

Warmth was the feeling, the light at the crack that separated your thighs. One that Lee could drown in as he diligently licks at your cunt.

With a harsh tug of his hair and the sultry whine that slipped past your lips, Lee could die in between your thighs and he’d regret nothing. In the dim light of your room, Lee was nestled nicely down there as you were spread in your bed. Small, kitten lips at your throbbing clit, before lapping at your folds. You forgot how long you’ve been at his mercy, yet the dampness that pooled on your bed could say otherwise.

“L-Lee, ha—haah—wait–” You moaned out loud, “slow down, p-please!”

Pussydrunk, Lee moaned at the feeling, eating you away with no sense. You cried out from the overstimulation, desperately trying to push Lee away. But Lee’s hold in your hips were relentless.

“One more,” he groaned, “give me one more.”

His pants were aching from the tightness, but he was better off rutting his cock at the edge of your bed, focusing on your pleasure first and foremost.

Lapping at your juices, Lee realized why addiction was so potent—if they had seen the way your pussy clenched as he licked you clean, they’d be a devout addict. But he’s lucky, this sight was only his. You, your pretty little, soaking wet pussy was all his. No one else could make you cry out this loud, or the way your face contorted in pleasure—it was all Lee’s.

“C’mon, [Y/N], you can do it, do it for me,” Lee whispered between your soaking wet folds, “be a good girl, you can do it.”

A sharp shiver ran through your spine. Bubbling deep in your stomach, you cried as you felt two of his fingers slip deep in your pussy. “A-ah, Lee, w-wait—”

Sucking at your pearl, Lee’s fingers curled upward, hitting a spongy spot that made your pussy clench hard. With a loud cry of his name, you cum hard for the third time, sticky liquid coating his mechanical fingers. Lee fucks you through your orgasm, mesmerized in the way your eyes rolled back, crying as you arched your back.

“Good girl,” he cooed, “good girl, [Y/N].”

Amidst your orgasm, your pussy answered by squeezing the fingers that were still inside of you. As Lee pulled away, you noticed his chin shimmered with your slick in between the haze, which made your heart flutter. Watching through lust-blown eyes, his cerulean eyes were glowing brightly in the dark, and your only thought was—

“Pretty…”

“Hmm?” Lee chuckled, taking your hand to his lips, “Who is?”

“You,” you lolled, “It’s you…”

You opened your arms to welcome Lee, kissing in spite of his state. It’s hot, brightly burning with passion, humming as you mindlessly kissed Lee again and again, fueled in the heat of the moment. Yet you realized soon that his fingers found themselves grazing your overstimulated cunt, lightly rubbing it.

“A-ah, w-wait,” you whined, weakly pushing Lee away, “not yet…”

“Why?” Lee kissed the shell of your ear, “Is there something wrong?”

Your wandering hands finally found the thing you were looking for. The prominent bulge, sensitive enough that made him groan even as you grazed it with your hand.

“It’s not fair,” you pouted, “let me take care of you, too…”

“[Y/N], I’d much rather help you—”

“—Lee, please,” you pleaded, fluttering your eyelashes, “I want you to feel good, too…”

The fly was already down before he could nod, springing his long, thick cock. Lee breathed out a sigh of relief, but the itch was yet to be itched. Fortunately, your fingers were already running through his shaft, cock twitching from your teasing.

“See,” you sat properly, urging Lee to mirror you, “doesn’t it feel nice?”

You grabbed his shaft, enclosing your hand and jerking him lightly. Lee could hardly contain his moans, cheeks and ears blooming red from your ministration. You couldn't take your eyes off, too—your pretty boy, your Lee, feeling the same kind of pleasure that he had always given you.

“Does it feel good, Lee?” You asked, moving closer, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“Good, ugh,” Lee managed to say, “You’re doing so—hah, really, g-good.”

You’ve seen him naked a lot of times, no surprise to see his long and hard cock, heavy in your hand that you had to use your other one to help. Watching the way Lee’s face contorted as you jerk him off almost makes your own pussy throb, another set of wetness pooling in your thighs. Thumbing his slit, precum sliding off, you wanted to dip your head down and suck him off.

“You really should let me do this, Lee,” you hummed, leaning closer that your lips were leaving kisses on his jaw, “You should see how pretty you are when I’m touching you like this, mm?”

“[Y/N],” a sensual moan of your name rolling off of his tongue, your pussy clenched around nothing in response, “God—hah, don’t stop…”

Gritting his teeth, grasping your sheets as you jerked him harder. Your heart was beating wildly, like how you were too entangled with Lee—too wild, too indecent.

But your movements were halted, Lee’s hands wrapped tight around yours.

“Huh?”

“No,” Lee shook his head, ignoring his hot red dick throbbing, moving your hands away, “I can’t cum like this…I need to be inside of you to do that.”

For what it’s worth, Lee had always been wanting to bury himself deep in your cunt before the fun was over. Giggling at his answer, you pecked his lips. “Okay, okay.”

Thinking it wasn’t enough, Lee pulled you closer to kiss you better. Blind hands sought for the dip of your hips, leading you to his own. With twin moans, your pussy was pushed flush on the shaft of his aching cock. You even had the nerve to drag your soaking folds against the sensitive pulsating vein on his shaft.

“You’re teasing again,” Lee warned as he pulled away for a moment.

“I’m only letting you know how much I want you.”

With lips never leaving yours, you reached for his manhood, angling the tip to your awaiting hole. Lee helped in grounding you, gripping your hips hard as you shallowly fucked yourself on the tip.

“I can taste how much you want me, [Y/N],” his voice dripped in your ear, making you shiver, “Look how desperate you are for me.”

“I am,” you whined, feeling the bulbous tip finally slip past your tight ring of muscle, “I am fucking desperate for you, Lee.”

You sobbed as Lee’s cock was fully sheathed inside of you, already hitting your sensitive spot. Burying your face on the crook of his neck, Lee took the time to caress your shaking back.

“Even after we’ve done this a lot of times now—ngh—you’re still too tight for me.”

Your pussy fluttered around his shaft. “G-glad you think so.”

Attempting to rock your hips to move, Lee stopped you. You pulled back, noticing his gaze.

“As much as I want to move,” He whispered, “I’d like to take the time to admire my gift, please.”

You awkwardly laughed, “I thought you’ve done that before.”

“Mm, yeah, I have.” He inhaled, “but it’s different like this.”

Thoroughly content like this. Amid the dark room, moonlight found itself splattered on the floor, on your bed. Lee took your hand and held it back to his lips, gently kissing the back of your hand. Without looking away, his glowing cerulean eyes held too much emotion; there was lust, but they were love and adoration. Watching as he kissed every finger, from the pinkie, to the thumb, kissing one particular finger, lips lingering longer there. A display of emotion, one that Lee has long reserved only for you.

“Did you enjoy your gift, Lee?” You whispered, minding the wild flutter of your heart.

“How could I not?” He said, “You are the best gift I could ever receive.”

Despite everything, Lee is yours. All the pain, all the fear—the Tower, the red tide, the war raging outside of your door—and all you could do was rest your other hand to his chest, the metal cool as you feel the mirroring throb of his mechanical heart.

“Do you know why I love you, Lee?” You asked. He shook his head.

“I don’t.”

“I used to think that we wouldn’t be able to have the luxury for love.”

Looking away, you watched the sea of stars outside of your window. They were twinkling, shimmering; somewhere, constellations blanketed the universe, but they were hiding. You couldn’t care less, but the thought made you think so.

“We’re always sent to battle, and you were made to fight the virus. I didn’t think I’d be able to make a valuable connection, unless it was for the better of the majority.”

Flashes of your graduation from the F.O.S., to your first mission, Kowloong, the church, the Tower—it made you curl your fingers, grasping for Lee’s hand.

“But the Gray Raven…but you, it all changed.”

In the haze of memories, the only clear vision was Lee. Cupping his cheeks, thumb grazing the outline of his jaw, you laughed.

“It’s honestly funny. Gray Raven changed it for the better. But you made me believe that love…it exists, even in this damned world.”

Lee mirrored the smile on your face, as you traced his eyebrows, the shape of his eye, the bridge of his nose. Grazing his lower lip, you lightly left a kiss.

“I’m glad you exist, Lee.” You whispered, “Everything you went through was proof of your existence. I cannot imagine how painful it muat have been, but I want to use all the years of my life proving you that you are loved, that you are deserving of it.”

You’re already pressed flush against one another, but if you could, you’d collide closer to Lee.

“I love you, Lee.” You confessed, “I love you, I will live for you. If you stay on Earth, I’ll crawl out of heaven. Wherever you’ll go, I’ll follow. I never want to be apart from you. Just let me spend all the years with you, to shower you with all of my love.”

Lee took pride in his stoicism. But for you, oh, may that be damned.

Warmth was something he’d not have, but sometimes he covets. But you, you who deserves it all, somehow wants to share this warmth with him, out of all the people. You, who selfishly, gave a warmth unlike others. You, you, you—warm blood, flows freely within you, and you were his, as much as he was yours.

“That’s my line.” He laughed, leaning forward to kiss you, “I’ll love you for all the years, too, [Y/N].”

Every kiss with Lee felt like healing. Grasping at whatever to hold, at whatever skin, you never want to be apart from him. Lee started to move his hips, causing you to moan in between your fervent kisses.

Lee loves you. Lee makes love to you, precisely and deeply plunging his cock inside of you, hitting your sensitive spots. It doesn’t take long though, when your pussy spasmed as you cum through the pressure, crying out Lee’s name.

Lee followed shortly, groaning as he painted your walls, filling you full.

Labored breaths echo throughout the room, two lovers entwined, without the need to break away from each other.

“I love you, [Y/N].” Lee nuzzled in the crook of your neck, “I love you so much.”

“Mm, I think you made me lose the ability to walk at the moment…”

“Consider it a reward. Thank you for being my gift.”

It took a while to settle back into your bed, with Lee wanting to wash you up, but you insisted to stay until the numbing feeling in your legs disappeared. For now then, you were content with Lee on his back, and you sprawled on his chest.

The thump of his mechanical heart was a lullaby.

“Don’t doze off, [Y/N]. I still need to clean you up.”

“Lee,” you yawned in response, “Let’s get married.”

“That’s quite random,” you heard him laugh, “Why the sudden proposal?”

You gently brushed his empty ring finger, “Well, I don’t know what will happen next time. I’d rather have the proof that I’m already taken, and I’d rather have the rest of my life with you.”

“...Unless you like another?” You smugly added, looking up.

But Lee, with a chuckle, only pulled you up, kissing you.

“...We’ll get married, then. Whenever you want.”

“What if I want it tomorrow?”

He’d have to humor you for now, noticing the droop of your eyes. “Alright, sure.”

“I love you,” you dawdled, the last echoes of your consciousness drifting into the sea of dreams, “Lee, tomorrow, okay…?”

“Tomorrow.”

“...mm, don’t forget tomorrow, too…spend your birthday with me…”

“...Yes, I will.”

Lucky for you, a certain ring awaits near your table.

God pls give me a Lee I love You

— starry needs a bf

#punishing gray raven #pgr #punishing gray raven imagines #pgr commandant #pgr global #pgr lee #pgr hyperreal #happy activation day lee!!!!

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