#especially not machine-generated text machines

[scarlettgauthor]

I first posted this in a thread over on BlueSky, but I decided to port (a slightly edited version of) it over here, too.

Entirely aside from the absurd and deeply incorrect idea [NaNoWriMo has posited] that machine-generated text and images are somehow "leveling the playing field" for marginalized groups, I think we need to interrogate the base assumption that acknowledging how people have different abilities is ableist/discriminatory. Everyone SHOULD have access to an equal playing field when it comes to housing, healthcare, the ability to exist in public spaces, participating in general public life, employment, etc.

That doesn't mean every person gets to achieve every dream no matter what.

I am 39 years old and I have scoliosis and genetically tight hamstrings, both of which deeply impact my mobility. I will never be a professional contortionist. If I found a robot made out of tentacles and made it do contortion and then demanded everyone call me a contortionist, I would be rightly laughed out of any contortion community. Also, to make it equivalent, the tentacle robot would be provided for "free" by a huge corporation based on stolen unpaid routines from actual contortionists, and using it would boil drinking water in the Southwest into nothingness every time I asked it to do anything, and the whole point would be to avoid paying actual contortionists.

If you cannot - fully CAN NOT - do something, even with accommodations, that does not make you worth less as a person, and it doesn't mean the accommodations shouldn't exist, but it does mean that maybe that thing is not for you.

But who CAN NOT do things are not who uses "AI." It's people who WILL NOT do things.

"AI art means disabled people can be artists who wouldn't be able to otherwise!" There are armless artists drawing with their feet. There are paralyzed artists drawing with their mouths, or with special tracking software that translates their eye movements into lines. There are deeply dyslexic authors writing via text-to-speech. There are deaf musicians. If you actually want to do a thing and care about doing the thing, you can almost always find a way to do the thing.

Telling a machine to do it for you isn't equalizing access for the marginalized. It's cheating. It's anti-labor. It makes it easier for corporations not to pay creative workers, AND THAT'S IS WHY THEY'RE PUSHING IT EVERYWHERE.

I can't wait for the bubble to burst on machine-generated everything, just like it did for NFTs. When it does some people are going to discover they didn't actually learn anything or develop any transferable skills or make anything they can be proud of.

I hope a few of those people pick up a pencil.

It's never too late to start creating. It's never too late to actually learn something. It's never too late to realize that the work is the point.

[anyoldfandom]

Sighs new Flight Rising dragons made me. Really excited about their genes so guess who I'm making as a dragon now,

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter one

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: you help steady the hospital’s chaos with quiet rituals and small acts of kindness. order and routine make each shift feel almost predictable. yet, tomorrow may demand more than the calm you rely on.

⤿ warning(s): medical-talk + inaccuracies, blood

⟡ story masterlist ; next

✦ word count: 2.8k

You used to have dreams—bright ones, hungry ones.

But somewhere between the double shifts and the endless hum of fluorescent lighting, those dreams had quieted. They hadn’t disappeared, not entirely, but now they came in the form of small things: the smell of tea steeping before sunrise, the clean snap of hospital sheets, the stillness of your apartment before the day began.

You lived alone, but that was never a tragedy to you.

Your apartment was modest. Cozy. Lived-in, with warm wooden floors and cream curtains that kissed the edges of your windows. One plant thrived stubbornly in the corner by the radiator—some gifted thing you’d kept alive out of sheer spite. Photos of nieces, nephews, and long-lost vacations sat on the sideboard. The kitchen was small, but clean. You kept your things tidy, because life was messy enough at the hospital.

It was your control. Your calm.

Your mornings began the same way they had for years. Wake up before the sun, curl your toes into your slippers, and shuffle toward the kettle. Black tea, strong. You didn’t bother with cream or sugar. Just heat and caffeine and the comfort of routine. You drank it while checking your phone—usually a few texts from Dana, the charge nurse over in Emergency, and an update or two from your sister about her youngest’s science project.

Then, a hot shower. Soft music playing in the background—today it was old blues, something mellow. You dressed in your gray scrubs, slipped on your comfortable shoes, and made your way to the kitchen.

You didn’t believe in skipping meals—not after years of surviving on vending machine food and sheer willpower. 

The contents of your first lunch bag were already waiting in the fridge: slices of roasted chicken you’d basted the night before, still fragrant with lemon and thyme, and a generous scoop of rice pilaf with caramelized onion and roasted carrots tucked beside it. A small container of green beans sautéed with garlic. Warm cornbread, wrapped in foil, so it stayed soft. A boiled egg. Warm food. The kind that could keep your feet under you even in the middle of a 12-hour shift.

Then you opened the second lunch bag that you pulled out whenever you had an especially high volume of left-overs, and began to fill it. A thermos of hearty lentil stew, a few cheese and spinach empanadas you’d made and frozen last week, a stack of soft tortillas wrapped in cloth to keep warm, and a small container of fresh-cut fruit. You added a tin of shortbread cookies, too. People liked those.

You never asked who needed it. You didn’t have to. You just left it in the staff fridge every morning, labeled simply: “Up for Grabs – Eat.”

 By noon, it was always empty.

You paused before sealing the bags, then reached into the top drawer by the stove and pulled out a handful of black tea packets. Not just a few—seven or eight. You slid them into the side pocket with care, the familiar crinkle of foil against fabric oddly soothing.

Then came the last step: a glance around the apartment, a check of the stovetop knobs, and the soft click of the door behind you.

Everything was where it needed to be. Just like always.

. . .

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital never slept, not really.

You arrived with the sun cresting over the river, a pale smear of gold across the skyline. Even in the early morning, the hospital was alive: stretchers rolling in from Emergency, clipped voices paging overhead, janitors finishing their night rounds, and a group of med students already looking overwhelmed before they even got inside.

You swiped your badge at the side entrance and were immediately hit with the smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee.

For you, the surgical wing was your kingdom.

Bright lights. Cold air. Soft beeps and controlled chaos. You’d been here longer than most. A senior surgical nurse, day shift. You weren’t in it for praise—you weren’t even in it for thanks. You were in it for the discipline, for the order that existed even amid blood and panic. In a world that never stopped breaking, you were one of the ones putting it back together.

Your team knew it, too.

“Hey, boss,” said Fin, a junior nurse in his second year. He looked like a wiry greyhound who’d grown up on steel mills and pick‑up games; he had the reflexes of a cat and the attention span of a bee.  He fell into step beside you with a bounce in his sneakers. “Just got a fresh post-op in Five. Dr. Garcia was already yelling about the chart.”

You gave him a look. “Did you forget to mark the drains again?”

“I swear I didn’t—okay, maybe I did one, but—”

“You get one more maybe today, or I’m taping a checklist to your forehead.”

He saluted dramatically, then broke off in a little jog ahead of you. But before he turned the corner, he spun around, shadow-boxing in the air like some scrappy middleweight on caffeine. “I’ve been working out, by the way.” He flexed one arm, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a modest bicep. “You’re gonna have to start calling me Big Fin.”

You arched a brow. “I’ll consider it. Right after I get my hearing checked.”

“Brutal,” he called back, grinning as he disappeared into Recovery.

You passed Jules, the surgical scrub nurse, reviewing trays with the precision of a jeweler. “We’re short on curved hemostats,” she muttered without looking up. “Already paged Central Supply twice.”

“I’ll give them a call,” you said, adjusting your clipboard. “They listen when I growl.”

“That’s because they think you could shank them with a suture needle.”

You just smiled.

And then, as always, Margot appeared like clockwork.

She was the charge nurse for the surgical wing, older than you by a few years, and about twice as loud. Silver-streaked curls piled into a bun, sleeves rolled up, clipboard in hand, Margot ran the board like a general and swore like a sailor with a grudge.

“Someone better have coffee for me or blood will be spilled,” she barked as she stepped into the unit, already scanning the whiteboard.

“Isn’t that what we’re here for?” you quipped, handing her a small to-go cup you’d filled back in the break room.

She paused. Narrowed her eyes at you. Then smiled—really smiled. “You always take care of me, you old softie.”

“I’m just trying to prevent a homicide before noon.”

The two of you had worked side by side for almost a decade now. Margot was the only one who knew when your laugh wasn’t real, when your tiredness was more than just a long shift, and when something was bothering you even if you hadn’t said a word. She kept the unit on its feet and your spine straight on the rough days.

And you did the same for her.

“You see the supply tray?” she asked, flipping through her pages.

“Yeah. Jules is about ready to fight someone. I’ll call Central again.”

“Tell ‘em we’re not slicing open anyone with Fisher-Price tweezers,” Margot muttered.

Then there was Tasha, one of the newer float nurses, still finding her rhythm. You made a point to check in on her mid-morning, offering her a granola bar and a steadying word after a rough debridement assist.

Then the surgeons—Dr. Miller and Dr. Garcia.

The day moved with precision. Rounds. Preps. Walk-throughs. Checklists. Blood draws. Verifying scripts. Comforting scared patients with a hand on the shoulder and a warm, quiet voice.

You were good at your job. You didn’t miss much.

So later, when you came back from a break and found your clipboard slightly askew on the nurse’s station, you paused long enough for a single pulse to drum behind your ear. Nobody touched your clipboard—everyone in the surgical wing knew that rule as surely as they knew where the crash cart lived. 

Maybe someone had needed a room number. Maybe it had slipped. You inhaled, nudged the board flush with the counter until the metal lip kissed the laminate, and forced the unease to flatten into habit.

You’d barely slipped your pen back into your chest pocket when the hallway exploded with noise. Fin came tearing around the corner, long legs pumping, one gloved hand slicing the air.

“Teen male, abdominal stab, BP tanking,” he barked, breathless but ready. “Ortho tried Versed, he blew right through it. They’re wheeling him to OR Three.”

You asked, checking the boy's vitals. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. “Jules on instruments?”

“She’s setting up—missing a couple clamps, but she’ll find ’em.”

“Manny?”

“Grabbing blood.”

“Tasha?”

“Down in pharmacy, checking meds.”

“Good. Let’s move.”

The doors to OR Three burst open just as you reached them. Fluorescent lights bleached the boy’s skin to paper. 

Dr. Miller was already scrubbing, calling for suction. Across from him stood Dr. Garcia, eyes snapping behind her shield. She glanced at the vitals and muttered, “Whoever dosed him with sedatives barely touched the pain.” Miller shot her a look. “Less commentary, Garcia. Let’s save him first.” She fired back, “Then cut faster, sir—the vein’s not going to tie itself.”

Sanitized and ready, you slid into place opposite her, tilting the overhead lamp. Fin fitted an oxygen mask; Manny rushed in with the first bag of blood; Jules appeared at your elbow, tray shining, somehow already stocked with the clamps she’d been missing. Tasha sprinted in last, waving a sheet. “No allergies, no meds except a pain shot!”

Dr. Miller opened the wound and a sheet of bright red flooded the field. Dr. Garcia’s tone dropped to steel. “Big vessel—clamp.” She stretched out her hand. You slapped the clamp into her palm, then lifted the suction hose to clear the view.

Suddenly, the boy’s pressure plummeted; alarms wailed. “More blood." You called. Manny twisted the valve; Fin squeezed the bag. The heart monitor flatlined. Dr. Garcia snapped, “Paddles—now.” Before anyone moved, you had already grabbed the paddles and passed them to Fin. One jolt. The screen flickered, steadied, beeped. Dr. Garcia’s stitches flew; Dr. Miller tied off the last thread, shoulders sagging as the bleeding finally slowed.

What followed was practiced choreography: gauze when asked, retractors nudged, light shifted a hair. When Dr. Miller clipped the final knot he let out a long breath that was half a laugh. “Daylight shifts are never dull,” he sighed.

Dr. Garcia peeled off her gloves with a snap, fogged goggles hiding everything but the warmth in her eyes. “Couldn’t have done it without our guardian angel,” she said, tilting her head toward you. It was half tease, half something softer, and it landed heavier than you expected.

You counted sponges—perfect, as always—then wiped a smear of blood from the boy’s cheek, smoothing a cool cloth across his brow. He’d live. That was enough.

The team rolled him toward recovery; Jules rattled off instructions so crisp the transport nurse only nodded, wide‑eyed. Behind them, the OR lights dimmed, and the sudden hush felt almost holy.

The rest of the shift unwound in a gentler rhythm. 

You rounded on post‑ops, double‑checked Fin’s drainage labels, helped Tasha master a tricky IV start, and caught Manny slipping in a whole-ass Subway when he thought you weren’t looking. Every time you passed Dr. Garcia, she either offered a nod or a salute with her pen, the gesture equal parts respect and camaraderie. 

Evening sunlight slanted gold through the clerestory windows by the time the last chart closed. You ducked into the staff fridge, retrieved your two lunch bags—yours scraped clean but for a few strays crumbs. 

Margot was at the whiteboard, bun unraveling yet posture unbowed. She glanced up as you approached, empty Tupperware clacking in your tote. “Board’s balanced, rooms stocked, staff fed,” she said. “You leaving us to the wolves?”

“Night crew can handle a few cubs,” you replied, shrugging into your jacket.

She eyed the way you fastened the zipper to your chin. “Stopping at your perch first?”

“Ten minutes. Clear the head.”

Margot clicked her pen, lips twitching. “Wind’s vicious tonight. Button that collar or you’ll fly off the roof like Mary Poppins.”

“A spoonful of heparin helps the blood flow,” you dead‑panned. 

Margot’s raspy laugh chased you down the hall while you zipped your jacket to the chin and patted the bulging side pocket that held your small contraband: half a dozen foil envelopes of strong black tea.

Two flights up you eased the rooftop door open. Evening air—cold, river‑raw—rolled across the tar. The skyline glimmered; the last blush of sunset clung to the horizon like a fading bruise.

And there he was, exactly where you’d hoped: Dr. Jack Abbot, fresh from the locker room and on his way into the night shift. He wore his usual charcoal‑black scrubs —pockets already stuffed with trauma shears and a folded set of gloves—plus a worn bomber jacket. Short curls, dark but mostly silver, were still damp from a quick sink‑splash. A dusting of stubble shadowed his jaw, the kind that looked deliberate until you noticed the faint razor burn along his throat. 

Jack never quite smoothed out the edges; he just learned to carry them.

He was screwing the lid onto an empty steel thermos when he spotted you. A crooked, lopsided smile tugged one corner of his mouth—as if he were never entirely sure you’d show up and was always pleasantly surprised when you did.

“Hi,” he said, voice a notch too loud over the wind before he caught himself and dropped it. “Shift treat?”

“Only if you call boiled bean water a treat,” you answered, nodding at the thermos. “Lucky for you, I brought an intervention.”

You pulled four packets of Earl Gray from your jacket pocket and offered them to him. Up close you saw how the overhead flood‑light silvered the gray in his curls and picked out the faint hollows under his eyes.

“What’s this now?” he said, accepting the packets and turning them between roughened fingers.

“Operation Convert the Coffee Addict,” you confirmed. “Side effects include better sleep and a 50 percent reduction in eye‑twitch.”

He huffed a laugh, half embarrassed. “You sure you’re not secretly cardiology? Because you’re going after my heart.”

You arched a brow. “That a complaint?”

“No,” he said quickly, then scrubbed a hand over his stubble—awkward tic when he realized he’d spoken faster than he could think. “I mean—no complaint at all.”

He cleared his throat and stepped back to the parapet, gaze flicking to the river lights.

“Heard about your stab victim,” Jack said, voice pitched just low enough to keep the compliment private. “Your wing turned him around in record time.”

“Dr. Garcia turned him around,” you corrected. “I just kept the stage lights on.”

His smile widened, steadier than before. “Modest again. The residents swear you’re the northern star—nobody gets lost on your watch.”

“Only because I feed them,” you said, lifting the tote. “Nothing inspires devotion like carbohydrates.”

He chuckled, a warm sound that rumbled more than it cracked. “Well, you’ve got my devotion for the tea.” He tucked the foil packets into his breast pocket, giving them a single decisive pat as if confirming an IV line.

“For the record,” you added, “nice work stabilizing the kid before he came up.”

Jack shook his head, curls stirring in the wind. “That was Robby. I’m just here to steal the credit and the glory hours later.”

You smirked. “At least you’re honest.”

“Path of least paperwork,” he said, a faint twinkle in his eyes.

A hush settled, broken only by the distant wail of a siren and the hum of rooftop fans. He rocked once on his heels—not fidgeting, just feeling the wind—then fixed you with a look equal parts grateful and teasing.

“So, tonight I try the tea,” he said. “If the caffeine drop puts me in a coma, you’ll swing by Resus and shock me back.”

“I’ll set the paddles to extra smug,” you promised.

His laugh came easy and full. “Deal.”

The hospital PA crackled below: “Trauma team to bay one, ETA two minutes.” Jack’s shoulders straightened; night‑shift instincts sliding into place.

“That’s my cue.” He lifted the empty thermos in salute. “See you tomorrow—tea in hand.”

“Four‑minute steep,” you reminded, backing toward the door. “Boil it and I’ll know.”

He gave a quick, confident nod—less scout’s honor, more a promise between friends—then turned for the stairs, jacket snapping in the wind. You watched until the door clanged shut behind him, the faint crinkle of tea packets trailing off into the night.

Somewhere below, monitors beeped, lives tilted, and the clipboard sat perfectly square on the counter where you’d left it, but up here there was only wind and the faint scent of river water. You breathed in, held the air until your heartbeat matched the city’s distant pulse, then turned for the stairs, ready to go home, ready to return tomorrow and do it all again.

divider credit

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part four)

warnings ; where do i start. public sex kinda (they’re in an office), choking, degradation lowkey, fingering, unprotected sex, reader gets forced to say thank you??? idk bruh

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; let’s get one thing straight here — this is porn. porn to the highest degree. however, this is porn with plot, i swear. also, just so everyone’s aware, this is tpod!jk core. like this is how i imagine him when i write him (with this song. and that hair. especially this song and you SHOULD listen to it while reading.) anyways my point here is that this smut has meaning and it is not just some crack of the tension whip (although that, it is too. whatever. say thank you Ang!) <33

playlist here *and you should listen to meddle about while reading this*

series masterlist here

The headlines had hit before you’d even left the gala.

And by the time you wake up the next morning — bare-faced, half-blind, head pounding from one too many champagne flutes — it’s already a media typhoon.

At first, it’s quiet. A low simmer of speculation: grainy fan-captured footage, a couple throwaway tweets, Reddit sleuths dissecting every inch of fabric between Jungkook’s sleeve and Jennie’s waist like it’s a forensic crime scene. You squint at the screen, sip your espresso, and think Okay. Annoying, but containable.

Then it detonates.

Somewhere between your second cup of coffee and your third panicked email to the PR team, the entire internet decides: they’re in love. Secretly married. Expecting twins. Maybe launching a couple’s perfume line.

Your phone has been possessed ever since, buzzing, ringing, lighting up like a slot machine from hell. Sunrise to sunset, it doesn’t stop. Calvin Klein executives, press liaisons, Jungkook’s management.

Everywhere you look, there’s another headline screaming at you in all-caps bold Helvetica.

“JENNIE & JUNGKOOK: CALVIN KLEIN’S POWER COUPLE?”

“WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT THE GALA? BLACKPINK AND BTS HOTTEST COUPLE”

No confirmation. No Dispatch exposé. No official anything.

None of it matters though, because the internet doesn’t wait for facts. It builds empires out of crumbs. And right now, it’s building one out of Jungkook’s smirk and the angle of Jennie’s clavicle.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter, hunched over your desk like a shell-shocked war general, fingers pressing into your temples hard enough to leave dents.

Across from you, Daniel doesn’t even look up. “No shit.”

He’s typing at Mach speed, probably trying to get ahead of the narrative. Your assistant is juggling five calls at once. The PR team is in full red-alert mode, assembling a strategy board like they’re planning a military coup.

You’ve been on back-to-back calls with Jungkook’s manager for the past day, trying to glue this mess back together with nothing but rage and anxiety.

“Can we at least get his company to release a statement?” you ask, flipping through the latest crisis reports.

Daniel snorts. “They aren’t touching this with a ten-foot pole.”

You glare. “Why?”

He glances up, deadpan. “Because it’s free publicity.”

You exhale so sharply it feels like your soul exits your body. Of course. Of fucking course.

Jungkook’s name is trending worldwide along with Jennie’s. Calvin Klein’s engagement metrics have gone full meteoric. This is the kind of viral attention marketing teams dream about minus the spontaneous combustion of your sanity. So, all that to say, no one actually cares that you’re bleeding out behind the scenes. That you haven’t slept in 24 hours. That your screen time is officially criminal. That every time you close your eyes, you see fan edits of his hand on her waist set to some dramatic TikTok audio and captioned “soulmates.”

The worst part of it all is you haven’t seen him. Not in meetings, in hallways and not even a fucking text.

While you’re spiraling into madness trying to do damage control, Jungkook is out there existing, probably blissfully unaware, shirtless in his hotel room, eating ramen and ignoring 400 missed calls.

Professionally — you’re furious. This was supposed to be your campaign, your legacy. Not some romantic scandal rebranded into clickbait. The optics are a nightmare. The timing couldn’t be worse. And now, instead of launching a clean global message, you’re managing a tabloid firestorm.

Personally — you want to launch him into the sun.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The tension in the Los Angeles office conference room is unbearable. You sit at the head of the table, posture perfect but jaw clenched, while Jungkook lounges across from you like he didn’t just derail your entire campaign with his fucking face.

His expression is unreadable but you can feel it, the heat rolling off him. He’s pissed too. Good. Let him stew.

His manager is talking fast, voice tight, while Calvin Klein’s PR lead cycles through stats like this is a TED Talk. “There’s no actual damage… if anything, the buzz is working in our favor. Global engagement is up 36% in the past three days.”

You grip your pen so tightly it might become a weapon.

They’re treating it like a miracle, like this whole thing was orchestrated. Like you haven’t been putting out fires for 72 straight hours while Jungkook goes radio silent and lets the rumor mill chew you alive.

No one’s asking how you’re doing. No one’s wondering why your hands are shaking beneath the table or your voice has gone hoarse from repeating the same line in every call: There is no confirmed relationship between our brand ambassadors.

You don’t even look at Jungkook. You don’t need to. You can feel his crossed arms and the stubborn, infuriating silence a mile away. He hasn’t said a word this whole meeting, just simmering annoyance.

It’s mutual.

By the time the meeting wraps, you’re seconds away from snapping your pen in half and hurling it across the room.

“We’ll keep monitoring the situation,” Jungkook’s manager says, closing a notebook with a satisfied little snap. “No statements for now. Let’s see how it plays out.”

You smile politely. You are going to kill him. And you’re going to do it in a very calm, very professional, very brand-safe way.

Make no mistake, Jungkook is not getting out of this untouched. Especially not after you haven’t slept in three days, after you touched yourself like some hypnotized virgin because he told you to.

Everyone nods. There’s the rustle of papers, the scrape of chairs on polished floors, the low murmur of corporate farewells. One by one, people file out of the conference room, clutching tablets and crisis decks pretending they weren’t just gleefully discussing how to milk this for record-breaking engagement.

The door clicks shut behind the last person.

Thick, cloying, suffocating silence. It swallows the room whole.

For some reason you can’t explain, Jungkook does not file out of the room with the rest of the team. No, he sits there. You don’t move or have the energy to question his motives.

You sit frozen in your chair, every muscle pulled taut, fingers tapping slow against the glass table, almost like a warning and a countdown. Your other hand is curled into a fist in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your palm as you do the mental math on whether murder voids your employment contract.

Your eyes flick to Jungkook, who’s sprawled back in his chair, legs spread slightly apart, one ringed finger lazily dragging along the curve of his jaw like he’s bored. Or amused. Or both. His expression is neutral, completely detached. Like the headlines weren’t about him and he’s never even heard the word scandal.

He’s got that infuriating look again from the other night — that what chaos? look—and your jaw ticks.

Tap. Tap. Tap. One last, sharp crack of nail to glass.

“Tell me you’ve seen the fucking headlines.” You don’t yell. You don’t need to. Your voice slices through the air like it’s powered by three sleepless nights and a steady diet of cold espresso and escalating fury.

Jungkook’s eyes finally lift slowly like he’s gracing you with his attention.

You glare. “Tell me you’re not actually this stupid.”

The barest twitch of his brow. Something flashes behind his eyes — humor? guilt? boredom? — but it’s gone before you can grab hold of it.

Then he shrugs like your career isn’t currently dangling off a PR cliff. “What do you want me to do?” His tone is even, the exact pitch of someone who’s never once had to clean up after himself. “Call Dispatch and tell them I was just being friendly?”

You blink casually, pulse thudding in your ears.

You’re too well-trained to explode on him. Too experienced, too poised. But, something inside you combusts. A small, silent implosion of patience and all the fake calm you’ve been wearing.

He has no idea what it’s like to sit through back-to-back damage control meetings while your brand is turning into tabloid fodder. No clue how many favors you’ve had to call in, how many emails you’ve had to rewrite until your fingers went numb. How many headlines you’ve seen this week that made your stomach twist.

Somehow, he’s still looking at you like you’re the one overreacting.

Your voice drops, quieter now. “Friendly doesn’t involve your hand on her waist.”

Jungkook tilts his head lazily, like he’s trying to remember. “Didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to talk to people anymore.”

“Oh my god,” you exhale. “You are insufferable.”

The fact that he’s still calm, still sprawled out in that chair like this is just another workday, is only making everything worse.

You shove back from your chair so hard it scrapes across the floor with a screech that would make your assistant wince. Heels clicking, spine ramrod straight, you round the table like a storm in four-inch heels, not stopping until you’re toe-to-toe with his chair.

He doesn’t flinch, not even a blink. Just watches you approach like he’s a monument to indifference. His legs are splayed slightly apart, both arms calmly resting in his lap.

Your blood boils so hot it’s a miracle the fire alarms haven’t gone off.

“You think this is funny?” Your voice pierces through the air. “You think this is some harmless little flirtation?”

Still, no reaction. Just a slow exhale through his nose, like he’s being so patient with you.

“This isn’t about your personal life, Jungkook. This is about your goddamn responsibility to this brand,” You tower over him, and there’s a sense of joy that ripples through you as he stares up at you.

So, you keep going. “Do you even get how hard I’ve worked to make this campaign seamless? Flawless? Executives don’t throw global platform rollouts at just anyone, Jungkook. I fought tooth and nail for this and for you and now the only thing people are talking about is Jennie like it’s some soft launch.”

You see it the moment it lands; the flicker in his eyes, the slight drop of his shoulders, a shadow passing across his expression before it hardens again. Yet he has the nerve to lean back even farther like you’re just a minor inconvenience standing between him and his afternoon protein shake.

Then, finally, he speaks. It’s exactly as smug as you feared it would be. “Oh,” he says, “So that’s what’s really bothering you.”

Your jaw tightens so fast it might shatter.

Jungkook’s eyes glint, lips twitching, “You don’t like that people are talking about me with someone else.”

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, as if he’s not just poking the bear. He’s setting the entire forest on fire to see how you’ll react.

You laugh bitterly. It’s the kind of sharp, completely unhinged sound that spills out when you’ve officially crossed the border between frustration and rage. Your vision tunnels and your fists clench. You wonder if any judge would convict you for knocking out one of his perfectly white teeth.

“You’re fucking impossible,” you spit, nearly breathless.

“No,” he says slowly, coming to some realization. “You just hate when things don’t go your way.”

You take a step forward, dangerously close to falling on top of him in that chair. Close enough to count the flecks in his eyes, close enough to rip that chain off his neck if you wanted to.

“You are a reckless, immature, insufferable little shit who doesn’t know when to stop,” you snap, every word a direct shot to his ego.

Jungkook’s jaw clenches. “And you’re a fucking control freak who thinks the world will crumble if you’re not there to hold it up.”

Your breath hitches. That one sentence goes deeper than it should. That wasn’t a throwaway insult. That wasn’t just something to piss you off. That was a direct fucking hit, and Jungkook knows it.

“You know what the worst part is?” you whisper, each word soaked in absolute disgust. “You actually think you’re special.”

Jungkook’s expression shifts, and not in a dramatic, storming-off, throw-the-chair kind of way; he’s too practiced for that. But it’s there beneath the surface.

You see it, and you double down.

“Of course you think the world revolves around you,” You say, voice curling with disbelief. “You walk around like consequences don’t apply. Like you can do whatever the fuck you want and someone will be there to fix it. You’re not brilliant. You’re not clever. You’re just an overgrown man-child with too much power and zero idea what to do with it.”

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek deliberately like he’s trying to decide whether to bite back or bite harder.

“Oh, and you?” he says, voice dropping into that venom-laced register he saves for moments like this. “You’re just another girl in heels, pretending your job makes you interesting.”

Your blood is boiling, sure. Your hands are clenched so tightly you’re pretty sure your nails have left permanent dents in your skin. But you’ve had enough. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re unbearable,” He grits out, standing up to loom over you. You don’t back down, though.

“You’re the most insufferable man I’ve ever met.” You spit the sentence like you’re trying to scrape the taste of him off your tongue.

Jungkook lets out a short laugh that’s dry and humorless. You realize now you might be in serious trouble, with him being so close to you that you can smell his scent, can see every curve in his pink lips. It’s also not helping that when he’s standing like this in front of you, he practically towers over you and you can look right up into his darkened eyes. But you’ve done worse to more important men.

“You should be fucking thanking me,” Jungkook glares.

That’s the moment where your patience fractures like glass. A laugh explodes from your chest, the kind of sound that only comes when you’re so far past your limit that your body doesn’t know what else to do. You throw your hands in the air, exasperated, stunned, teetering on the edge of hysterical.

“Thanking you?” you repeat, incredulous. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Let me just clear my schedule so I can fall to my knees in eternal gratitude.”

He doesn’t blink. He watches you with that calmness, like he’s the victim here. You keep going, the rage pouring out unchecked now. “Thank you for what, Jungkook? For being a walking liability? For dragging the campaign into a scandal before we even hit global release? For making my job a nightmare?”

And then he says the sentence that knocks the wind out of you. The one that makes everything go suddenly, dangerously quiet. “This campaign is nothing without me.”

The words land like a slap. Your mouth parts, stunned at first. A full second passes before the heat rises to your face, before the fury starts buzzing in your limbs like electricity, before you really register what the fuck he just said.

Beneath all of it — the rage, the resentment, the sheer disbelief — it’s there. That horrible, humiliating ache lodged deep in your chest. Because god, you hate him. You hate the way he talks, the way he breathes, the way he stares at you like he’s not afraid of you. But what you hate more is the way you still want him, even now and even when he’s infuriating and reckless and dragging your hard work through the dirt, your body still betrays you. It aches in places you swore he couldn’t reach. It’s disgusting. It’s pathetic. And you’d rather die than let him see it.

You step in closer, close enough to smell the cologne on his collar. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch, this wouldn’t be an argument; it’d be something else entirely. Something much worse.

“Is that what you think?” you whisper, voice cutting and low, trembling with rage you can’t contain.

His eyes flicker, uncertain for the first time.

“Fine,” you continue, sweetly now. Your voice dips into something syrupy, bitter enough to rot your teeth. “You want a thank you?”

“Thank you, Jungkook. Thank you for being the absolute worst celebrity I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with. Thank you for the emotional whiplash, for reminding me every single day that talent doesn’t equal professionalism. Thank you for making my life a fucking nightmare. Really… thank you. “

Jungkook’s lips twitch, not in a smirk, not exactly, but not a smile either. It’s a little wicked. The kind of expression that says I know what I’m about to do, and I know you’re going to let me.

Then he leans in slightly, enough to make your breath pause and your spine lock straight. His voice drops into that low, dangerous place that always sets your nerves alight. “You are so fucking welcome.”

That’s really all it takes.

It’s like a match to gasoline. Like every insult and eye-roll and pointed glare was just foreplay for this exact moment.

And then he’s on you.

There’s no grace to it. No warm-up. No time to second-guess what the hell is happening. His mouth crashes into yours like it’s been building since the first time he pissed you off. His kiss isn’t sweet. It’s not poetic. It’s not some delicate, well-choreographed thing you’d find in a film scored by violins.

It’s a breaking point: his lips bruising yours, his tongue sliding in like he owns the right and claiming victory, like he’s waited too long to keep pretending he doesn’t want this as badly as you do.

And you do. God, you do.

Your back hits the edge of the table. His hands are already everywhere, one wrapped tight around your waist, the other gripping your jaw with just enough pressure to make your head spin. There’s a very real chance he’ll leave marks and an even more real part of you that wants him to.

This is so incredibly, epically stupid.

Anyone could walk by. Anyone could glance through the conference room glass and see you kissing Jeon Jungkook like he’s the only thing keeping your heart from flatlining. This is career suicide. This is the real scandal.

For a moment, you don’t care. You don’t care about the job or the risk or the headlines this could spark by morning.

Right now, you need this. You need him. You need the way his mouth drags against yours, hungry and punishing. You need the little sound he makes when you fist your hands into the collar of his shirt and yank him closer like you’re daring him to ruin you.

You need the way he tastes, like it’s the final word in every fight you’ve lost to him.

Your heart is hammering. Your skin’s on fire. And all you can think between the biting kisses, the ragged breaths, the way his teeth graze your bottom lip like he wants to keep a piece of you, is how badly you want more.

He knows, because the grip on your waist tightens like he’s trying to anchor you. His breathing’s uneven now, ragged against your cheek. His lips are red, swollen. He pulls back just a fraction to look at you.

The worst part — the part that makes you want to scream into the nearest cushion and maybe also sue him for emotional damages — is that this is his fault. All of it. Three nights ago, he told you to get off. Just like that.“Maybe you just need to get off.” So you did. Not with him, because you still had a shred of pride at the time, but alone, practically shaking. With one hand between your thighs and the other gripping your pillow. The whole time, you imagined him, his mouth, the way he’d sound telling you to let go, like it was an order, not a favor. You’d never cum so fast in your life.

Now your body’s not even pretending to be neutral. You want him. And honestly, you can’t even blame yourself anymore. What choice did you ever have?

His mouth is back on yours in an instant, hotter, rougher, like he’s trying to erase every sharp word you’ve ever thrown at him and replace it with this. Tongue, teeth, hands. It’s all-consuming.

His lips drop lower, dragging along the edge of your jaw. He bites once, hard enough to make your pulse stutter, then soothes it with the flat of his tongue, mouth trailing down your neck like he’s tasting a victory

The heat of his breath hits the column of your throat, and you shudder. Your hands scramble for something to hold onto, fingers gripping the edge of the table like that might ground you, like the cool surface might offset the fire currently crawling beneath your skin. But then his mouth finds the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and he sucks lightly, enough pressure to make your knees go soft and a gasp slip from your lips before you can bite it back.

And that’s when reality sucker punches you.

This is a conference room.

A Calvin Klein conference room with glass walls and a brand reputation you’re quite literally paid to protect. These walls are not built for discretion. You could throw a stapler against them and still hear the gossip echo through the elevators.

You moan again and it’s the sound that yanks you back into yourself.

You break away from his mouth, breath ragged, pulse sprinting, trying to pull oxygen back into your brain and remember things like logic, boundaries, laws.

Your fists are knotted in the collar of his shirt as you breathe out, “Lock the fucking door. Close the blinds before someone sees.”

Jungkook freezes for a second. And then that smirk creeps back in like it never left, like you didn’t just try to be the voice of reason and immediately lose to your own body chemistry.

He leans in again, and his mouth grazes your ear, his tone low “What?” he whispers, a chuckle riding the syllable. “You don’t want anyone to see how desperate you are for me?”

Your breath hitches at that. You should be angry. You should throw him across the room and write him up for misconduct and file a strongly worded HR complaint with yourself.

But instead, your stomach flips. And his hand slides down your side, fingers digging in just tight enough to make you feel pinned in place.

“You don’t want anyone to see you thank me properly?” he murmurs, his mouth grazing the side of your neck again.

You hate that it lands. You hate the way heat immediately pools deep in your stomach, sharp and unrelenting, like your body has fully abandoned ship and left your brain behind with a middle finger and a “good luck.”

With every brain cell you have left, you know you should push him away. You should shut this whole thing down before it crosses a line so thick it might as well be in neon.

Instead, you let go of his shirt and he grins like he knows exactly what that means.

With a breathy exhale, he turns and strolls toward the door with that godforsaken confidence, the kind that makes you want to rip off his shirt and punch him in the face, preferably in that order. His movements are infuriatingly casual. You hear the click of the lock, sharp in the quiet room.

One by one, he draws the blinds closed, shielding the floor-to-ceiling windows from view. Not that there’s anyone left to see; It’s late and way past working hours. The only people left in this building are you and him.

By the time he turns back to you, the air feels different. It’s the kind that screams no take-backs.

When Jungkook starts walking toward you, you swear your lungs forget how to function. He’s looking at you like he already knows what’s about to happen and he’s already halfway through imagining exactly how you’ll fall apart for him.

Which, for all intents and purposes, is so annoying.

You hate how good he looks under fluorescent lighting. Hate the way he moves like a storm rolling in. Hate the way your stomach flips when his hands find your hips, fingers curling tight, tugging you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His lips press against yours again. His mouth is all heat and pressure, tongue pushing past your lips.You don’t stand a chance. Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling, gripping as he groans into your mouth. His fingers drift lower, trailing down your waist with infuriating patience.

He smirks against your lips, no less. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs with the kind of voice that says I knew you’d break eventually, like this is some victory lap and not the exact thing he’s been secretly begging for just as much as you have.

His hands slide up your thighs now, slow and teasing, thumbs grazing the hem of your pencil skirt. He pushes the fabric inch by inch, taking his sweet time, fingers skimming bare skin like he’s trying to savor the reveal.

Your breath stutters. Jungkook, the ever observant bastard, notices.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath warm as he says, “Still waiting for that thank you, sweetheart.”

Your pulse jumps and he takes that as an invitation to move his fingers even higher. Your head tilts back against instinct as his mouth drags along your jaw.

“Come on,” he hums, voice silky. “Be polite.”

You’re already dizzy. Your body’s betraying you by the second, caving faster than you’d like to admit. Every part of you is screaming more, while your brain is just quietly short-circuiting in the background, waving a white flag.

But there’s still a sliver of fight left in you. You grit your teeth. “Fuck off.”

His hands shove your skirt the rest of the way up, no hesitation, fabric sliding around your waist like gravity’s no longer relevant. He steps back half a beat to look and the second his eyes drop, you see it.

His resolve flickers long enough for his jaw to tense, for his breath to catch ever so slightly at the sight of your black lace panties stretched against skin. It’s the tiniest shift but it’s there.

He clicks his tongue, a single, dismissive tsk like this is an error. A styling choice to be corrected. Like your underwear is somehow offensive to his sense of dominance and he’s going to rectify it immediately.

His fingers trace the curve of your hip, dragging over the band of lace like he’s thinking about doing something with it but not yet. He stays right there, just beneath the threshold of satisfaction, basking in the power of your suspended breath.

He leans in, “Only polite girls get what they want.”

Your pulse spikes so fast it makes you dizzy. His lips ghost along your jaw barely there, and then a sudden squeeze at your thigh

“That dirty mouth?” he murmurs, dragging his lips back to your ear, “It’s not getting you anywhere.”

His presence is overwhelming. He’s not just standing in front of you, he’s all over you. In your space, in your breath, in your bloodstream.

He’s not even doing that much and you’re still putty in his hands.

His fingers skim lower, brushing dangerously close, hovering over the heat between your thighs like he’s got nothing but time. He doesn’t dare touch you fully though.

“You feel that?” he whispers, his knuckles grazing across your clothed clit.

You hate the way your head tips back slightly. The way your lashes flutter without permission. The way your hips tilt forward subtly enough to betray you completely.

You hear the smile in his voice before you see it. “Oh, baby…”

His voice is smug as his thumb drags along the soaked strip of lace between your legs. His lips curl as he feels it, the proof of what he’s doing to you.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He’s just confirmed his own suspicions.

“Still telling me to fuck off, when you’re this wet for me?” His words go straight to your core.

You dig your nails into the glass table like it might keep you grounded, like maybe furniture will save your dignity when your body is this far gone. Every muscle is wound tight, clenching around nothing.

“Shut up,” you snap.

Or at least, you try to. Your voice cracks and it’s more of a gasp than a threat.

Jungkook laughs so sure of himself. The sound rolls over your skin. “That’s not how you thank me, sweetheart.”

His thumb slides down again, agonizingly slow, pressing right where you’re aching, but lightly to make you whimper.

Your hips jerk forward instinctively. He watches the way your body reacts, eyes locked on your every movement, cataloging every breath, every flinch, every subtle giveaway.

“C’mon,” he breathes, low and taunting as his fingers drag along the damp lace again. “Be polite. Say thank you.”

You want to kill him. You want to slap the look off his face, shove him into the wall, storm out of the room with your head high and your dignity intact.

Instead, you bite down on your bottom lip so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t split.

Your chest rises, sharp and fast, trying to hold yourself together while his fingers keep up their rhythm, the barely-there pressure that amount to nothing and everything all at once.

Every motion is deliberate, cruel in the way only Jungkook can manage. He drags his fingers over the soaked fabric with precision, keeping you right on the edge without ever tipping you over.

His dark eyes flick up to your face, full of wicked amusement. Your whole body trembles, thighs twitching with every gentle, useless stroke that doesn’t give you what you need.

It’s humiliating, honestly, how badly you want this. How badly you want him to just pull your panties aside and do something about it. You hate how soaked you are.

Jungkook chuckles. “Getting desperate, baby?”

His fingers press down slightly harder, dragging slow and steady over your clit, still over the lace, still refusing to give you the friction you’re dying for. It makes your breath sink into your chest, your thighs squeeze together, your pride snap a little further.

“No,” you force out, barely above a whisper. It’s pathetic. You know it, he knows it. You hate how weak it sounds, how shaky your voice is like your body’s begging even when your mouth is trying to hold the line.

And then — god help you — his thumb swipes over your clit, the lightest brush, and it shoots lightning straight up your spine.

Your head tilts back with a gasp, eyes fluttering shut. His lips brush your jaw, deceptively soft.

“Then why are you shaking?” he whispers. He already knows the answer and just wants to hear you admit it.

Your pride is threadbare. Your breathing’s a mess. Your thighs are trembling. Your self-control has officially packed a suitcase and left the building.

“P-please, Jungkook—” you gasp, voice shaking.

His cock twitches against the front of his jeans at the sound. Before you can even protest or say some other snarky remark, his fingers vanish.

You blink, stunned as he pulls back. He shakes his head slowly, like he’s the one let down here. “That’s not a thank you, sweetheart.”

You don’t even have time to react. One second you’re trying to remember how to breathe, and the next, he moves. Hands firm on your waist, grip unyielding, and then he lifts you like you weigh absolutely nothing. As if you’re just another object he’s decided he wants to rearrange, only this one’s got a mouth and an attitude and a skirt that’s now hiked halfway up her thighs. He places you right on top of the conference table and your breath catches.

Your heels skid against his jeans, scraping uselessly as you scramble to steady yourself. It’s humiliating how easily he manhandles you, how your pride takes a nosedive the second he steps between your legs and palms your knees wide like it’s the most obvious place they should be.

You’re caged in now. The position, however, seems to be a problem. A very large, very solid, very painful-to-ignore problem currently pressed against your cunt.

You grit your teeth, already seething, already spiraling, already half out of your mind with the unfairness of how badly you want this.

His head drops slightly as his tattooed fingers trail down again, grazing your inner thigh, slow and dangerous, until they find the damp lace between your legs. “Try again,” he whispers.

His thumb presses against your clit again but it’s still not enough. It’s slow, careful circles that make your hips twitch, make your legs shake.

His expression is ripped straight from your nightmares, or your fantasies. You can’t tell the difference anymore.

“That’s more like it,” he says like you’ve just proven a point for him. Like your shaking thighs are a confession and he’s been waiting all week to drag them out of you.

His thumb keeps moving, slow and taunting. The pressure is maddening. It’s fire with no release, torture with rhythm.

He tuts softly, shaking his head like he’s disappointed in both of you.

“Such a fucking mess,” he mutters, voice thick like molasses. His fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, hooking in, finally doing what you’ve been silently begging him to do for what feels like years.

He pushes the fabric aside, and the air hits you immediately. You suck in a breath like this whole thing has suddenly crossed from fantasy into something far too real.

Jungkook’s fingers slide through your slick folds, unhurried, gathering every bit of your arousal on those infuriatingly elegant hands. He groans at the feeling, the sound being punched out of him.

And when he lifts his hand to the light, fingers coated, glistening, spreading them slightly to watch your wetness stretch between them, you want to die. You want to combust.

His eyes flick back to yours, “Look at this. Dripping all over my hands. You really are pathetic, huh?”

You whimper. It’s not a choice. It’s not even voluntary. It’s just your body breaking, and he feels it. Feels the way your thighs twitch again, the way you clench around absolutely nothing, the way you respond to every filthy word he feeds you like it’s gospel.

His thumb swipes the slick across your bottom lip, but he’s already following it with two fingers, pressing gently, not forcing.

“Here,” he says, “Be a good girl. Taste yourself.”

And maybe in another life, you’d slap his hand away. Maybe you’d laugh. Maybe you’d remind him who the fuck you are and who works for who in this brand partnership. But, right now? Right now, your body is burning. Your pride is unraveling. Your brain is static.

You part your lips slowly and his fingers slip inside. Your eyes flutter shut while your tongue swirls over them. You taste yourself, sweet and sharp. You suck, gentle at first, then harder, and Jungkook curses under his breath.

You feel him, thick and straining through his jeans, twitching with every movement of your mouth, every drag of your tongue.

“Fuck,” he whispers, watching you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

Jungkook’s grin spreads like wildfire as he slips his fingers from your mouth, glistening with your taste. Under the soft conference room lighting, they shimmer like proof. Evidence. The loss of your ego documented in high definition.

Those same fingers trail back down, dragging across your skin like he’s etching his name into you. He dips between your thighs again, gathering the mess you’ve already made for him and then he inserts one finger… then two.

“F-fuck—” the word stumbles out of your mouth, sharp and fractured.

Your entire body jolts, instinct tightening your grip on his shoulders like he’s the only thing tethering you to the present. His tattooed knuckles vanish inside you, filling you with such ease, the stretch making your eyes flutter.

“Messy little thing, aren’t you,” he murmurs, so clearly pleased with himself it makes you want to scream.

His gaze stays locked on yours as he starts to pump them, dragging along every nerve-ending like he’s studied the terrain. His fingers seek until they find that one devastating spot.

Your head falls back, a moan slipping past your lips before you can catch it. It’s the kind of sound that has no place in a room like this, in a room where you’ve scolded interns and charmed executives.

Now you’re perched on a table in your own damn conference room, gasping around his hand, writhing against his touch like some desperate cliché. Your skirt bunched at your waist and your voice a breathy mess. Every sound that leaves you is proof of just how far you’ve fallen.

“There it is,” he exhales, palm grinding against your clit just enough to make your hips shake.

The contact is almost too much. His other hand grips your waist to steady you. His eyes never leave your face.

“So damn needy,” he teases, leaning in until his mouth brushes yours, until you can feel every syllable fan across your lips. “What do you think they’d say if they saw you like this?”

Your whole body locks up. Your breath snags, your legs clamp tighter around his hand, thighs trembling at the very idea of someone walking in, of someone catching you sitting across a boardroom table with Jungkook’s fingers deep inside you.

“Oh,” he tuts, smug and molten, “you like that.”

His pace picks up, thrusts deeper now, fingers slick and unforgiving, dragging another desperate moan out of you. His rhythm is ruthless, his tone even more so.

“You like the thought of being caught,” he says, “You like knowing you’d just keep taking it. Letting me fuck you open while anyone could walk through that door.”

Your body is giving you away. Clenching, shaking, grinding down against his hand like you’re chasing something you swore you’d never need from him.

He can feel how close you are, how every muscle in your body has gone taut, trembling, ready to break.

And before you can protest, he stops, pulls back just slightly, fingers dragging out. You let out a sound you don’t even recognize — part whimper, part curse, all frustration. You chase what he keeps pulling away, and it’s humiliating how little shame your body has left. You’re supposed to be better than this. You’re supposed to have dignity.

“So fucking greedy,” he mutters, voice all lazy cruelty, thumb circling over your clit in the most obnoxiously light touch imaginable. “But not a single thank you? That’s rude, baby.”

Your eyes snap open, burning holes into his stupidly infuriating face. He’s enjoying this, no, thriving on it like every second you squirm just proves a point he’s been waiting to make.

“Go to hell,” you spit, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Just shut up and do it.”

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you didn’t just give him exactly what he wants. The sound is sharp and sends heat rolling through your spine in the worst way.

“There she is,” he says, and then his fingers enter you again and push deeper. He resumes the same slow, devastating rhythm that makes you want to scream and sob and slap him in the face all at once.

“That attitude’s going to be the death of you,” he shakes his head his other hand pins your thigh wide open. “Can’t follow the simplest instruction, can you?”

You glare, breath stuttering, thighs trembling around his wrist. You’re soaked. You’re twitchy. You’re seconds away from exploding and he’s still talking like this is some kind of training exercise.

“I don’t need to thank you for shit,” you grit out but your voice cracks halfway through.

“Sure you don’t,” he rolls his eyes, his fingers dragging out so painfully slow you swear your lungs stop working. He leaves you empty, throbbing, desperate.

He leans in, lips brushing your open mouth, barely there, like he’s daring you to beg. “Say it.”

The command lands like a slap. Your jaw tightens. Your pride hangs on by a thread. But his fingers curl again and your whole body clenches, bucking against him. His thumb presses harder now, rubbing tight, perfect circles. It’s torture. It’s heaven. It’s both.

“Say it,” he repeats, quieter this time, almost gentle. Which somehow makes it worse.

He doesn’t stop moving. He keeps pushing you closer, keeps working you with his long fingers like it’s some lesson in obedience and you’re failing miserably.

You crumble.

“T-thank you,” you gasp, barely audible, voice catching like it physically hurts to say it.

“There’s my girl,” Jungkook whispers, lips brushing yours. Fingers slam into you, hard and fast. Thumb relentless against your clit. His pace turns brutal in an instant, wringing every last shred of resistance from your body as he drags you straight to the edge.

He fucks you open with his fingers like he has a point to prove, and maybe he does. Maybe this whole thing is some twisted power play.

You’re clutching at his shoulders, his biceps, the table, anything that might ground you while your mouth flies open and your vision swims.

“Look at you,” he scoffs, voice ragged, fingers still thrusting deep and fast. “God, never seen you this out of control. “

You try to speak, try to say something sharp. Anything. But all that comes out is a gasp. Your head drops back and a string of breathless moans tumble from your mouth and you can’t stop them. You don’t even try.

“What?” Jungkook bites, fingers curling again, “No smartass comment now?”

His free hand grabs your jaw, forces your eyes to meet his. You look and feel like someone who’s been thoroughly, completely ruined.

“You were so mouthy earlier,” he taunts, lips brushing yours again, heat radiating between your bodies like static. “What the hell happened to that sharp little tongue?”

You really wish you had an answer.

A helpless sob punches out of your throat, your hips rolling into his palm like you’ve lost all motor control. It’s embarrassing. You should be embarrassed.

You’re too far gone to care, too high on the way he’s touching you to feel anything but that slippery, white-hot desperation boiling under your skin.

“Th-thank you,” you nearly scream, the words barely forming a shape. They’re not even yours. They feel stolen, ripped from someone else’s body and handed to him like a white flag.

Jungkook laughs, fingers slamming harder. His wrist is soaked with you, slick dripping down his knuckles as he fucks you with a pace that borders on brutal.

“That’s right, baby,” he groans, teeth clenched. His breath fans across your lips, hot and ragged. “Keep fucking thanking me.”

Your thighs start shaking. Like, really shaking. Not sexy trembling — it’s full-on, legs-aren’t-working, earthquake-mode collapse. His smirk is practically audible when he leans in closer, pressing his palm down just enough to keep you locked in place.

“Gonna cum for me?” he taunts cruelly. “Gonna soak my fucking hand like a good girl?”

“Y-yes,” you choke out, already unraveling. “Yes—please—fuck—”

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s the kind of orgasm that folds you in half, that knocks the air from your lungs, that crashes into you like a freight train with zero brakes.

You cry out as your entire body convulses. Your juices gush out of you, coating his fingers, dripping onto his wrist, soaking the polished conference table beneath you.

“Holy fuck,” Jungkook breathes, eyes wide, jaw slack as he watches you fall apart in real time. His fingers finally slow, dragging out your high but your chest is still heaving, mind blank, vision fuzzy.

Your hands move on autopilot, grabbing his jaw, dragging him down like you can’t bear another second without his mouth. Your lips crash into his, your breath still stuttering as you kiss him like he’s oxygen.

Jungkook groans into your mouth, his grip on your thighs tightening as his hands, still slick with you, glide up your sides. He doesn’t wipe them clean. He smears you into your own skin, marking you like a trophy.

You reach down between your bodies, fingers fumbling for his jeans like you’re possessed. Your breath mixes with his, frantic and desperate.

“Take them off,” you pant, yanking at the waistband. “Fucking take them off, Jungkook.”

“Bossy now, huh?” he teases, brushing his lips over yours as he bats your hands away with infuriating ease, long enough to shove his jeans down himself.

The zipper splits the silence like a gunshot.

Your panties? Gone. He doesn’t ease them off, doesn’t bother with delicacy. He hooks his fingers under the lace, yanks hard, and the fabric tears clean in half before sailing somewhere behind you like a flag of surrender. You’re too stunned to even flinch.

His jeans hit the floor and boxers follow. Towering over you, cock flushed and straining, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip. He’s hard and you’re suddenly aware of just how empty you are without him.

You should stop. You know you should. This is a disaster. A mistake. An HR nightmare.

And then Jungkook smirks like the devil just handed him a keycard to your soul and those thoughts vanish.

His hands grip your thighs as he pushes them wider, spreading you open on the cold, polished surface of the Calvin Klein conference table like this is his personal altar.

“Better say thank you again,” he mutters condescendingly, as he lines himself up with the mess between your legs. “Might be your last chance to be polite.”

And like… objectively? You hate him. Right now… you hate yourself more.

The table is ice-cold against your bare skin, a jarring contrast to the way his body radiates heat between your thighs. His cock drags through your slick, hot and heavy and completely disrespectful, teasing your entrance and tapping against your clit like he’s knocking just to be rude.

A high-pitched moan escapes before you can clamp it down, and suddenly your hands are flying to his shoulders, gripping tight, nails digging in, like he might float away if you don’t anchor yourself to something solid.

“So fucking desperate,” he notes against your jaw, lips dragging across your skin like he’s trying to mark a trail. “You always get this needy when you’re about to beg?”

You want to tell him to shut up. You do. But then he nudges forward again, his cock just barely breaching your entrance, not even halfway in, and your thighs are already trembling like he’s got you wired to a detonator.

“You’re lucky I’m even giving you this,” he says, and… okay. You should slap him. Or yourself. Or whoever failed you in your formative years because what the fuck is happening right now.

Maybe your parents didn’t hug you enough. Maybe this is some long-buried trauma expressing itself through your complete inability to say no to a cocky k-pop idol who’s holding you open like a wishbone and acting like he’s doing you a favor.

But also… it’s been months. Months since you’ve been touched. Months since someone made you feel like this. Maybe ever since someone made you feel like this.

It doesn’t help that he’s so good at this. Infuriatingly, obscenely, life-ruiningly good.

He drags his cock along your folds again, spreading your arousal over his length, dragging it torturously slow over your clit just to feel your hips buck, just to hear that gasp fall from your lips.

“What’s missing?” he asks, fake innocence dripping from every syllable. “Hmm?”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip like he’s testing the weight of your silence. Like he knows your pride is the last thing standing between you and complete humiliation.

You know what he wants. You know what he’s waiting for yet your lips stay sealed. Your nails dig deeper into his skin. You hold on to your last shred of dignity like it’s going to save you from drowning even though you’re already in over your head.

“Fine,” he breathes, feigning disappointment as he presses forward, just the tip. “Guess you don’t want it that bad after all.”

That’s the moment your sanity packs a suitcase and bolts for the nearest emergency exit.

You grab his face and crash your mouth into his like you’re trying to shut him up with teeth. The kiss is messy, all heat and spit and pure, frantic need.

“Thank you,” you breathe into his mouth, unhinged, panting, kissing him again before he can gloat.

“Thank you,” again, more wrecked now, your body grinding up against him like your life depends on it. You’re trying to make him cave, to make him snap. Trying to ruin him the way he’s been systematically dismantling you.

Your hand slides between your bodies like muscle memory, wrapping around his cock for the first time, and…

“Oh my fucking god.”

The words fall out before you even process them.

He’s massive. Thick too. Your fingers don’t even fully meet around him. You blink, stunned, palm moving in slow strokes as you feel the weight of him, already leaking against your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” you say under your breath, more to yourself than anything.

Jungkook grins, so satisfied with himself and for one brief, fleeting second, you almost come to your senses.

His smirk returns with full force, his dark eyes blown wide, borderline unhinged as he watches you really see him. Watches the way your fingers tremble around his cock, the way your mouth goes slack like your brain is buffering under the weight of the moment.

“Yeah?” he breathes, tilting his head just slightly,“That mouth finally quieted down.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he’s twitching in your grip, thick and flushed and hot against your palm.

“Scared, sweetheart?”

Here’s the thing: you know he’s talking about his dick. You’ve gotten that much. Beyond that, though, you really should be scared. This is a terrible idea. Catastrophically bad. You could lose your job. Your reputation. Your sanity.

And yet here you are, stroking him faster like it’s a religious calling.

Your legs fall open wider and Jungkook kisses you like he’s claiming his prize, mouth slanted over yours, tongue dragging.

The second he slides in, your soul flatlines.

There’s no warning. No buildup. Just the full, devastating stretch of him splitting you open like you’ve never been touched before. He sinks in with ease, your slick dragging down his length like your body knew him. Like it had been waiting.

And holy shit, he’s huge. Your head drops back, mouth open in a silent gasp as your nails dig into his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself against the full-body shock of being filled to the hilt. It’s overwhelming. It’s incredible. It’s so good it feels wrong.

Jungkook moans as he watches himself disappear inside you. His jaw clenches, inked fingers bruising your waist as your walls flutter around him, squeezing tight enough to knock the wind out of both of you.

“Fucking hell,” he hisses, forehead dropping against yours as his cock throbs inside you, helpless against the heat of your body.

His eyes snap up to yours, and without a word, his hand shoots up, wraps around your throat, and squeezes. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he whispers, “All full of my cock.”

Your nails scrape down his back, thighs trembling as he pulls back slightly, enough to make you beg.

Then, without another word, as if he’s decided he’s done holding back too, he slams into you.

And the sound that tears from your throat? It’s not human.

He pounds into you, deep and unrelenting, each thrust angled to wreck you a little more than the last. You cry out, your whole body rocking with the force of it, your breath cutting out as your walls clamp around him, fluttering like you can’t decide if you’re ready to take this or not.

Spoiler: you’re not.

His grip on your throat tightens, not enough to hurt, but to hold, to remind you who’s in charge here.

The slick, wet sounds of your bodies meeting echo through the room, mixing your breathy moans, with his low, guttural groans. Filthy. Loud. Absolutely not workplace appropriate.

Your cream coats his cock, slicking down to the base, messy and hot and humiliating.

“Where’s that fucking mouth now?” Jungkook snarls, breath ragged as he watches your head tip back in surrender. “What happened to all that attitude, huh?”

You try. You really do.

But all that comes out is a shattered moan, your lips parting around a gasp as your eyes flutter open, dazed and glassy.

“Nothing to say now?” he pants, his hold flexing around your throat, his hips snapping forward like punishment. “So fucking mouthy before… so bitchy.”

Your nails dig into his arm now, clutching anything to survive the relentless drag of his cock inside you. You’re soaking the table. You’re making a mess of yourself.

His other hand grips your thigh, pinning it wide, forcing you to take every inch of him, again and again and again.

You let out something between a gasp and a sob, a high, broken sound that is dragged from your throat as your muscles twitch with every devastating thrust. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

The drag of his cock inside you.

The pressure of his hand tightening around your throat.

The voice in your head screaming what the fuck are you doing while your body clings to him like it would rather die than let this end.

“You fucking love this, don’t you?” he taunts, eyes gleaming, lips cut in a grin so sharp it could slice you clean in half.

Your hands clutch at his wrist like you’re trying to stop him but the truth is more humiliating than that. You want more.

“Say it,” he growls, voice hoarse, wild, like he’s half a second away from breaking himself. “Say how bad you needed to get fucked like this.”

You literally can’t speak — and you wish he would understand this before asking you to say more things — but you try, lips parting, throat working around the words.

“Fucking thank me for this cock,” he snarls, each word a vicious command, each syllable punctuated by a brutal snap of his hips that knocks the breath from your lungs.

You’re gasping, moaning, barely holding onto coherence as he drives into you, stretching you so full it feels like your body is being taken apart from the inside.

“Th-thank you,” you whimper, the words stuttering out of you, barely a whisper. You hate how easily you say it, how naturally it slips from your tongue. At this point, you do mean it though. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s obliteration. It’s ego-shattering, soul-rearranging ruin, and you’re giving in with open arms.

Jungkook groans, his eyes squeezing shut for a second as your walls clench around him, squeezing so tight his rhythm falters, hips stuttering as a curse slips from his lips.

Then he’s moving again, faster, rougher, desperate in a way that makes your stomach flip. One hand drags down your stomach, the other grabs the collar of your blouse and rips. Buttons go flying. Fabric splits.

And suddenly you’re bare beneath him, chest heaving, breasts spilling out like a reward he’s been waiting to collect.

“Fucking hell,” he bites his lip ring, eyes darkening.

His palms are rough, fingers greedy. He grabs your breasts like he’s starved, squeezing, rolling your nipples between his thumbs until your back arches, your body chasing his touch.

He slams you flat onto your back, the cool glass of the conference table slapping against your skin like a punishment. The temperature sends a jolt through you, makes you arch up into him, makes your breath catch in your throat.

He doesn’t stop or give you a second to process. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open wide, and before you can regain your breathing patterns, he’s already hiking one leg up, hooking it over the thick band of muscle in his tattooed forearm. The shift tilts your hips and the second he thrusts back in, your entire nervous system stops working.

You scream. Not a cute sound. Not a porn sound. It’s raw.. It’s the kind of noise that rips out of you when someone hits a part of you you didn’t even know could feel.

“Holy fuck,” you sob, fingers clawing at the glass beneath you, nails skittering uselessly against the smooth surface. There’s nothing to hold onto. No leverage. Just the dizzying rhythm of his cock dragging in and out, in and out, too deep, too good, too much.

Jungkook groans low in his throat, head dropping, dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches himself disappear into you, thick and soaked in everything you’ve already given him. Your cream is everywhere.

“That’s it,” he grits out, his voice wrecked and strained, every muscle in his body flexed, straining with restraint. “That’s my girl.”

And all you can do is say the only thing left in your vocabulary.

“Thank you… thank you, Jungkook—” the words tumble out in gasping fragments, broken between moans, between thrusts, between the feeling of him absolutely ruining what little control you thought you had left.

“Yeah?” he pants, reaching up to grab your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks, forcing you to look at him even though your eyes are already half-rolled and glassy. “That’s all you can say now, huh?”

You nod, barely, because clearly speaking is no longer a skill you possess. And it makes him laugh as he pushes your leg higher, spreading you wider.

His rhythm snaps into something faster now, his hips slamming into yours with a pace that feels like it should knock the table off its legs. He’s so deep. So deep you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel.

God, he looks so good like this. Face flushed. Veins in his neck standing out. Tattoos flexing. Sweat dripping down his chest as his abs tighten with every brutal thrust. You want to kiss him. You want to claw at him. You want to cry.

“You were such a bitch to me,” he grits out, eyes locked on yours, voice pure venomous lust. “Thought you were untouchable.”

You would’ve snapped back. Any other time. Any other moment. But then he slams into you again, sharp and sudden, and the breath is knocked right out of your lungs, your hands flailing for anything.

“And now look at you,” he spits, voice dropping, almost fond in how cruel it is. “Just a pathetic little slut for my cock.”

This is exactly how you imagined it three nights ago. When you were alone in that hotel bed, hand between your thighs, chasing the memory of his voice, the feel of his breath on your skin. You pictured this exact stretch, this rhythm, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, or, well, into the conference table. Somehow, it’s better. It’s so much fucking better than anything your desperate, horny little brain had managed to conjure. Because of course he’s good at this. Of course he’s the kind of infuriating, smug fucker who can read your body like it’s his native language. Every thrust, every snap of his hips, every filthy word slipping past his lips feels custom-built to ruin you.

You whimper pathetically, your nails carving down the ridges of his forearms as your whole body trembles beneath him, too far gone to pretend you’re still in control. Your hips jerk up to meet every punishing thrust, desperate for more even as your brain screams that this is a bad idea, a terrible idea, that you should still have a shred of self-respect left.

You don’t, and it gets worse every time he opens his mouth.

Because of course his filthy, cruel little comments only make the fire in your gut burn hotter. Every time he mocks you, your core clenches like your body’s trying to wring the arrogance out of him.

“F-fuck you—” you manage to get out, voice wrecked and thin, but even you can hear the edge of a moan tangled in the syllables.

“Already doing that, sweetheart,” he pants, his grin stretched.

His thumb finds your clit, pressing hard, rubbing little circles that send lightning up your spine, and your back arches clean off the table like he’s shocked you straight out of your body.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, like he’s not the one actively rearranging your internal organs. “Thought you were tough. Thought you could take it.”

His thrusts pick up speed, slamming into you with relentless force, his cock dragging over every hypersensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where you’re about to break.

“You were so fucking loud earlier,” he grits out, eyes burning, “What happened to that mouth, baby?”

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear, hips slamming into yours like he’s trying to knock the voice back into you. “Use it,” he snarls. “Come on. Say something.”

But you can’t. You literally cannot form a single syllable. Your body is locking up, every muscle coiling tight as your release barrels toward you like a goddamn freight train. All that comes out is a high, ragged keening sound, your mouth hanging open, your nails scraping down his arms, your thighs quaking around his waist as he fucks you toward the edge.

He feels the way you start to squeeze him as if your body’s trying to pull him deeper, hold him in place, never let him go.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, voice cracking, eyes slamming shut as your body milks him. “F-fuck, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

Your moans dissolve into pure nonsense, half-sobs, half-praise, all desperation, as the pressure builds unbearably.

And somewhere, in the scrambled static of your brain, one final thought surfaces: He’s going to ruin you for everyone else and you’re going to let him.

“Jungkook, fuck, please,” you gasp, voice so raw you barely recognize it as your own.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice gravel-rough, “This is what you fucking wanted, huh?”

Yes. Yes. This is exactly what you wanted, what you fantasized about with your fingers buried between your legs three nights ago while your rational brain screamed at you to stop.

His thumb drops to your clit again, pressing down hard, dragging tight, vicious circles that send electric shocks shooting up your spine. You cry out loudly, the sound ricocheting off glass walls that have seen way too much.

“You wanted me to fuck you like this,” he growls, teeth gritted as he watches the way your breasts bounce with every punishing thrust. “Wanted me to ruin you, didn’t you? Wanted to act like — fuck — a fucking brat just so I’d fuck you stupid.”

You’d deny it if you could, really. But he slams into you again and all that comes out is another broken moan as your nails carve into his arms, your brain gone static.

“Say it,” he snarls, hand gripping your face now, forcing your glassy eyes to meet his. “Fucking say it.”

“I—” you gasp, lips trembling. “I wanted it. Fuck, I wanted your cock so fucking bad.”

That’s what breaks him. Jungkook lets out the filthiest groan you’ve ever heard from a man as his whole body locks up for a moment, abs tightening, hips faltering like he’s trying not to lose it right then and there.

“F-fuck, baby,” he grits out, every muscle straining, “Be a good girl, come on. Cum for me.”

God, you do.

Your body shatters, legs locking around his waist, your release crashing over you so hard you forget your own name. You sob as your walls tighten around him, trying to drag him under with you.

“Oh my fucking god,” you cry, because there’s no other vernacular for what this is. Every nerve-ending is on fire, your skin tingling, your mind white-noise and wreckage.

Jungkook groans like it’s being torn from somewhere inside his chest and you feel his cock twitch, his rhythm faltering.

“F-fuck, fuck, baby,” Jungkook pants, his whole body jerking with the effort of holding back. You feel the twitch of him inside you and then suddenly he’s pulling out, just in time, hand flying to his cock as his other arm braces above you.

“Shit, oh, god [Y/N],” he groans. His brows knit together, eyes slamming shut as his release hits him hard, stroking himself feverishly as hot, slick ropes of cum spill across your stomach.

His thighs tremble, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts, strokes growing slower as he rides it out.

He’s so fucking pretty while he does it, like offensively pretty.

Like who the hell gave him permission to look like that while literally unraveling over you? Chest flushed, skin glowing, lips parted just enough to show his teeth as he groans your name like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. His sweat-slick hair falls into his eyes and you hate him for being this hot, for wrecking you and somehow looking like that while doing it.

You don’t know if it’s the orgasm or the emotional damage but your brain stops working a little.

Jesus Christ. You need therapy. Or an exorcism. Both at the same time probably.

For a second, the room is just breathing. Yours and his, probably fogging up the glass.

Jungkook finally exhales and when he looks down and sees the wreckage — you, splayed out and trembling, his cum smeared across your stomach like a signature — he grins.

“Such a fucking mess,” he notes, tone hoarse as his fingers swipe through the creamy trail across your stomach and smears it like an artist admiring his work.

Your body twitches again, a soft aftershock rippling through you, and he notices. His eyes drop to your still-quivering thighs, the way your breath catches, the way you’re still coming down like he’s rewired you from the inside out.

His tongue swipes over his lip ring. He tilts his head like he’s deciding whether to keep going or let you recover. Either way, you’re doomed.

Instead, he settles on, “You really should thank me for this one too, baby.”

And all you can do is lie there, half-naked on a conference table, covered in cum, dignity somewhere on the floor next to your ripped panties, and wonder how the fuck this became your life.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

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[ellipsus-writes]

Each week (or so), we'll highlight the relevant (and sometimes rage-inducing) news adjacent to writing and freedom of expression. (Find it on the blog too!) This week:

Censorship watch: Somehow, KOSA returned

It’s official: The Kids Online Safety Act (KOSA) is back from the dead. After failing to pass last year, the bipartisan bill has returned with fresh momentum and the same old baggage—namely, vague language that could endanger hosting platforms, transformative work, and implicitly target LGBTQ+ content under the guise of “protecting kids.”

… But wait, it gets better (worse). Republican Senator Mike Lee has introduced a new bill that makes other attempts to censor the internet look tame: the Interstate Obscenity Definition Act (IODA)—basically KOSA on bath salts. Lee’s third attempt since 2022, the bill would redefine what counts as “obscene” content on the internet, and ban it nationwide—with “its peddlers prosecuted.”

Whether IODA gains traction in Congress is still up in the air. But free speech advocates are already raising alarm bells over its implications.

The bill aims to gut the long-standing legal definition of “obscenity” established by the 1973 Miller v. California ruling, which currently protects most speech under the First Amendment unless it fails a three-part test. Under the Miller test, content is only considered legally obscene if it 1: appeals to prurient interests, 2: violates “contemporary community standards,” and 3: is patently offensive in how it depicts sexual acts.

IODA would throw out key parts of that test—specifically the bits about “community standards”—making it vastly easier to prosecute anything with sexual content, from films and photos, to novels and fanfic.

Under Lee’s definition (which—omg shocking can you believe this coincidence—mirrors that of the Heritage Foundation), even the most mild content with the affect of possible “titillation” could be included. (According to the Woodhull Freedom Foundation, the proposed definition is so broad it could rope in media on the level of Game of Thrones—or, generally, anything that depicts or describes human sexuality.) And while obscenity prosecutions are quite rare these days, that could change if IODA passes—and the collateral damage and criminalization (especially applied to creative freedoms and LGBT+ content creators) could be massive.

And while Lee’s last two obscenity reboots failed, the current political climate is... let’s say, cloudy with a chance of fascism.

Sound a little like Project 2025? Ding ding ding! In fact, Russell Vought, P2025’s architect, was just quietly appointed to take over DOGE from Elon Musk (the agency on a chainsaw crusade against federal programs, culture, and reality in general).

So. One bill revives vague moral panic, another wants to legally redefine it and prosecute creators, and the man who helped write the authoritarian playbook—with, surprise, the intent to criminalize LGBT+ content and individuals—just gained control of the purse strings.

Cool cool cool.

AO3 works targeted in latest (massive) AI scraping

Rewind to last month—In the latest “wait, they did what now?” moment for AI, a Hugging Face user going by nyuuzyou uploaded a massive dataset made up of roughly 12.6 million fanworks scraped from AO3—full text, metadata, tags, and all. (Info from r/AO3: If your works’ ID numbers between 1 and 63,200,000, and has public access, the work has been scraped.)

And it didn’t stop at AO3. Art and writing communities like PaperDemon and Artfol, among others, also found their content had been quietly scraped and posted to machine learning hubs without consent.

This is yet another attempt in a long line of more “official” scraping of creative work, and the complete disregard shown by the purveyors of GenAI for copyright law and basic consent. (Even the Pope agrees.)

AO3 filed a DMCA takedown, and Hugging Face initially complied—temporarily. But nyuuzyou responded with a counterclaim and re-uploaded the dataset to their personal website and other platforms, including ModelScope and DataFish—sites based in China and Russia, the same locations reportedly linked to Meta’s own AI training dataset, LibGen.

Some writers are locking their works. Others are filing individual DMCAs. But as long as bad actors and platforms like Hugging Face allow users to upload massive datasets scraped from creative communities with minimal oversight, it’s a circuitous game of whack-a-mole. (As others have recommended, we also suggest locking your works for registered users only.)

After disavowing AI copyright, leadership purge hits U.S. cultural institutions

In news that should give us all a brief flicker of hope, the U.S. Copyright Office officially confirmed: if your “creative” work was generated entirely by AI, it’s not eligible for copyright.

A recently released report laid it out plainly—human authorship is non-negotiable under current U.S. law, a stance meant to protect the concept of authorship itself from getting swallowed by generative sludge. The report is explicit in noting that generative AI draws “on massive troves of data, including copyrighted works,” and asks: “Do any of the acts involved require the copyright owners’ consent or compensation?” (Spoiler: yes.) It’s a “straight ticket loss for the AI companies” no matter how many techbros’ pitch decks claim otherwise (sorry, Inkitt).

“The Copyright Office (with a few exceptions) doesn’t have the power to issue binding interpretations of copyright law, but courts often cite to its expertise as persuasive,” tech law professor Blake. E Reid wrote on Bluesky.As the push to normalize AI-generated content continues (followed by lawsuits), without meaningful human contribution—actual creative labor—the output is not entitled to protection.

… And then there’s the timing.

The report dropped just before the abrupt firing of Copyright Office director Shira Perlmutter, who has been vocally skeptical of AI’s entitlement to creative work.

It's yet another culture war firing—one that also conveniently clears the way for fewer barriers to AI exploitation of creative work. And given that Elon Musk’s pals have their hands all over current federal leadership and GenAI tulip fever… the overlap of censorship politics and AI deregulation is looking less like coincidence and more like strategy.

Also ousted (via email)—Librarian of Congress Carla Hayden. According to White House press secretary and general ghoul Karoline Leavitt, Dr. Hayden was dismissed for “quite concerning things that she had done… in the pursuit of DEI, and putting inappropriate books in the library for children.” (Translation: books featuring queer people and POC.)

Dr. Hayden, who made history as the first Black woman to hold the position, spent the last eight years modernizing the Library of Congress, expanding digital access, and turning the institution into something more inclusive, accessible, and, well, public. So of course, she had to go. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The American Library Association condemned the firing immediately, calling it an “unjust dismissal” and praising Dr. Hayden for her visionary leadership. And who, oh who might be the White House’s answer to the LoC’s demanding and (historically) independent role?

The White House named Todd Blanche—AKA Trump’s personal lawyer turned Deputy Attorney General—as acting Librarian of Congress.

That’s not just sus, it’s likely illegal—the Library is part of the legislative branch, and its leadership is supposed to be confirmed by Congress. (You know, separation of powers and all that.)

But, plot twist: In a bold stand, Library of Congress staff are resisting the administration's attempts to install new leadership without congressional approval.

If this is part of the broader Project 2025 playbook, it’s pretty clear: Gut cultural institutions, replace leadership with stunningly unqualified loyalists, and quietly centralize control over everything from copyright to the nation’s archives.

Because when you can’t ban the books fast enough, you just take over the library.

Rebellions are built on hope

Over the past few years (read: eternity), a whole ecosystem of reactionary grifters has sprung up around Star Wars—with self-styled CoNtEnT CrEaTorS turning outrage to revenue by endlessly trashing the fandom. It’s all part of the same cynical playbook that radicalized the fallout of Gamergate, with more lightsabers and worse thumbnails. Even the worst people you know weighed in on May the Fourth (while Prequel reassessment is totally valid—we’re not giving J.D. Vance a win).

But one thing that shouldn't be up for debate is this: Andor, which wrapped its phenomenal two-season run this week, is probably the best Star Wars project of our time—maybe any time. It’s a masterclass in what it means to work within a beloved mythos and transform it, deepen it, and make it feel urgent again. (Sound familiar? Fanfic knows.)

Radicalization, revolution, resistance. The banality of evil. The power of propaganda. Colonialism, occupation, genocide—and still, in the midst of it all, the stubborn, defiant belief in a better world (or Galaxy).

Even if you’re not a lifelong SW nerd (couldn’t be us), you should give it a watch. It’s a nice reminder that amidst all the scraping, deregulation, censorship, enshittification—stories matter. Hope matters.

And we’re still writing.

Let us know if you find something other writers should know about, or join our Discord and share it there!

- The Ellipsus Team xo

[txttletale]

NOT asking this as a gotcha, I'm 100% sincere, can you point to pieces of AI art that you feel are interesting uses of the medium? Because I'm not philosophically opposed to it, but at the same time I've never seen anything that wasn't naked bandwagon shilling by the same people who pushed NFTs

sure! i think a classic of the medium is secret horses

(i sadly don't know who made it, but i've seen it around and fallen in love). this is everything AI art should be, imo, taking advantage of the liminal dreamlike quality of the medium and using titling and framing to say something about the piece that wouldn't exist if it was presented on its own. secret horses...

my favourite band, everything everything, released an album last year that made use of AI generation, both for the album's art and for small portions of the lyrics (interestingly, they've refused to say which lyrics are AI written and which are human written, which adds another layer of intrigue to me -- the only lyric that they've confirmed is AI generated is the title of 'software greatman', which forms the haunting, powerful chorus of the song that gets deconstructed into electronic incoherence. other highlights include the album art, part burning skyscape, part incomprehensible machine. what is the machine? is it a camera? a monitor? a train? does it matter?

and finally from this album cycle i adore the hallucinogenic exuberance of their video for i want a love like this:

in terms of dedicated artists working primarily within the AI medium, i'm a huge fan of @reachartwork, a really innovative artist who keeps blowing me away with evocative and interesting pieces and pioneer in ethical and cooperative AI art techniques. i'm an especially big fan of their grotesque and uncomfortable 'tooth machine' series:

as well as their desolate, bleak, alien landscapes:

(hole in the sky / river lethe )

and their project, the @infiniteartmachine, a model that produces art based upon algorithmically generated prompots -- effectively a long-term art piece.

finally, i'm a very very big fan of @roborosewater-masters, a bot that makes AI-created magic the gathering cards. this might not parse as 'art' to some people, or be interesting to analyze as such, but to me, someone obsessed with games and game studies, i think that the mix of synctactically correct magic the gathering rules text and abrupt non sequitur makes for really striking and funny pieces that prompt me to think about what the limits of games and gaming are

these are just the artists and pieces i can name off the top of my head, but i hope that they're representative of what generative art has to offer when it's not being done by grifters chasing the lowest common denominator.

[tanadrin]

Some Christian apologists have this way of presenting their eisegesis in a way that seems neutral and factual, like "actually, the 'eye of the needle' in Luke 18:25 refers to a special gate in Jerusalem camels had to kneel to get through..." that plays pretty well as disconnected factoids, especially when it's not presented in the context of "and this is why you need to personally embrace Jesus Christ as your lord and savior." Most of this stuff is pretty obviously a just-so-story made up out of whole cloth if you have done much reading in ancient history at all, nevermind history of the ancient near east, but sounds vaguely plausible to people who have no experience whatsoever in the field. Like sure, ancient people did weird inexplicable shit all the time; why wouldn't they have a No Camels Gate in the wall of Jerusalem?

Some of this is even framed in the tone of refuting received narratives, especially if those narratives can be blamed on the Catholic church--not being biblical literaists, Catholics actually seem to have less need for detailed apologia that maintains the authority of the biblical text, so a lot of this stuff is produced by evangelicals who are happy to blame supposed misreadings of the scripture on the machinations of the Catholic church. Which means you can fancy yourself a pretty cynical and even irreligious person and still have an understanding of the bible based heavily on talking points generated by Christian apologetics. And it's always funny to encounter someone online who is definitely not a Christian, and wouldn't identify as such, but whose understanding of this or that bit of the bible and how it was originally read was definitely cooked up in apologetic circles.

[rose-above-dark]

I’ve been seeing a lot of people joke / say that V1 canonically has a uterus and while I think that is objectively funny / interesting. Are we sure this isn’t blood from the metaphorical womb of Hell?

The text reads: “#INCLUDE ( blood, formal_blood ) FROM "d29tYg==“

Include blood *from* womb. Meaning that you’re gaining blood from the womb, periods are usually a flushing out of blood / reproductive stuff not gaining. I think it would be more interesting / make more sense if they gained blood from the womb of hell.

We also know that hell is alive (see: the canonical reason why doors open/close depending on enemy spawns, the “Forces from far beyond” from guttermans terminal entry, & hell’s eye everytime V1 dies).

Along with this: the symbolism of a womb is also used in the 7-2 poem, describing the guttermen feeling remorse for its source of blood: the person inside them. We know in hell that this still rings true, and the symbolism can be applied to hell in that hell is where the machines get their blood by killing demons made of hell, birthed form hell if you will. Therefore, gaining blood from the womb of hell as you are INSIDE hell.

This would also add to ultrakill’s themes of cannibalism and cycles, see: the 7-4 eulogy and general need to consume blood. You’re eating each other, your fellow machines, what remains of your creators. And depending on how canon you think the cybergrind is / each P rank attempt is (ESPECIALLY since we see hell’s eye flash for a moment before you die) then endlessly retrying until you get it right. The fire is gone, you’re chasing phantoms, you’re chasing your own tail, eating yourself until even the sparks burn away.

And yeah, I know that in the death screen, V1’s systems refer to itself in fleshy terms like organs and limbic systems

Which is why I’m not ruling out this could be V1’s uterus entirely since we do see its systems in that fleshy context, but still I think it would make more sense for the uterus to be METAPHORICALLY hell itself

[rassicas]

Information on Sockeye Station and Gone Fission Hydroplant from the Splatoon 3 artbook, translated and typeset. Pages 290-293. Haven't done a translation from the s3 artbook in a while, felt like a TL of these pages was long overdue lol Text transcription below:

Page 290

Fryers and fruits as a countermeasure against invaders who steal Golden Eggs This fortress-type settlement serves as a stronghold for the Salmonids of the Splatlands. There are many structures designed to deter and intimidate invaders, such as fried fish hung from towers to show their strength, as well as watchtowers equipped with huge guns and fryers. The most bloodthirsty of Salmonid are often assigned to this fort. Page 291 Sockeye Station This fort is characterized by its high, spiral-shaped scaffolding. At low tide, the land becomes quite wide, so even those who usually go their own way in combat are asked to team up. Right behind the fort is a stronghold built by the Salmonids, giving the area an imposing atmosphere.

Page 292

Gone Fission Hydroplant A marine power plant built to generate electricity from the rough ocean currents and tides in Splatlandian waters. When Salmonids crowd around the egg basket, they are unable to move. Especially during high tide, the area falls into chaos, and you run the risk of defeat.

Page 293 A power plant occupied by Salmonids Salmonids took over this abandoned marine power facility and remodeled it into a base. Power eggs, the source of vast amounts of energy, are refined in this facility. Between the burning hot exhaust fumes being expelled and the electrified machines scattered about, it's extremely dangerous just to get near the facility. It is said that some Salmonids are turned to meunière* inside. *meunière=cooking method of fish cooked in butter with lemon juice and parsley. JP name of the stage is Meunière Hydroplant.

[lorre-verie]

random Megumi Fushiguro headcanons

꩜ includes: dating headcanons with gn!reader, general headcanons ft. mentions of yuji, nobara, gojo, maki, panda & indirect mention to toji. w/c: 900-1k

written by both lorre and jude, proofread by jude. (❦) is a comment from lorre, (✧) is a comment from jude 

‧₊˚✩ » he’s clingy. but not clingy clingy, he’s clingy in the way that he always lingers around you, always wants to see your face or just be close to you.

he doesn’t even have to touch you. your presence is more than enough for him.

(❦: awww, basking in his sunlight! his sunlight being his s/o, i mean) (✧: i wouldn’t go that far.) (❦: shhhhh, let them be delusional) (✧: 🤐)

» you know he cares when he asks you if you’ve eaten lunch today, what you ate and if you liked it.

or when he passes you a water bottle without even looking at you during training cause he knows you're thirsty.

or giving you a snack he knows you like from the vending machine without even so much as a word, walking away immediately after. (❦: that’s so cute)

» has a little notebook in his drawer which he fills in little things he’s learned about people he cares about, like their likes and dislikes, or something he's observed.

there’s pages for you, nobara, yuji, maki and...i realise now there are very slim pickings.

there’s even half a page for gojo hidden near the very back.

don’t ask why it’s only half.

» probably wants to do cheesy shit like interlocking your pinkies together while walking, or sharing a milkshake with those curly red straws but feels like throwing up whenever he thinks about mentioning it to you. (✧: you’ll have to be the instigator for this one)

» i’m not even sure what to say about his hair. does he brush it? there’s no way he uses gel to get those spikes right?

they’re so unnatural that there's no chance he does that on purpose. what's up with that nest on his head? does he even know whats going on with his hair??? oh well, doesn't matter. he likes it when he gets to lay down on your lap after a tiring day and you run your fingers through his hair and on his scalp absentmindedly.

he closes his eyes and he feels like he’s achieved true bliss and happiness. 

» if you take your hand away suddenly, he won’t protest.

but his eyes will open ever so slightly, and he’ll just

stare.

why’d you stop??? don’t stop!!!

if after a while you haven’t returned your hand to its rightful place, his bottom lip will just barely jut out.

what? he’s not pouting. don’t be childish.

you hang around itadori too much.

you should spend more time with him instead. 

» he’s protective towards his s/o.

he’ll ask where you’re going and who you’re hanging out with, but he’ll let you go wherever.

but if you’re going somewhere dangerous he’ll come with you.

if you don’t want him to come, take a shikigami with you.

if you don’t want the shikigami to come, well. just be careful.

did you bring everything you needed? an umbrella in case it rains? water? charged your phone?

remember to text him if you need anything.

do you need some cash? take this.

what about pepper spray? or better yet, a hammer?

you have to laugh and stop him from following you straight up to your destination. 

» yeah. he knows he can’t stop you from doing anything you want to, but he just gets antsy. he just doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you, especially if you’re going on a tough mission. 

» sensitive to strong smells. i just know it.

I can imagine him turning his head away in silent disgust everytime he smells something thats too strong, good or bad.

even if its the just air freshener in a taxi, food thats been out a bit too long or, get this, "the smell of fresh leather".

he just seems like the kind of guy. (❦: pack it up, sensitive sniffer)

» notices everything, even if he doesn’t mention it.

oh, you’re hungry? he’s already reaching into his backpack and giving you a snack.

hm, you looked at that plushie a little longer than the other ones. oh?? whats it doing on your bed a few days later??

» insanelyyyyy touch starved but will NEVER admit to it (✧: unless you two are dating, but even then)

» thinks the big spoon and small spoon shit is stupid.

why can’t he hug you and you hug him back facing each other??? why do people do that???? do you just hate being happy and seeing your loved one facing you????

» hates cucumbers. need megumi to leave an area? throw a cucumber at him. he says 'they have a smell' and that 'it's horrid'.

» will add like a buttload of ginger in his food and insist that its not spicy and you should try it if you dont believe him. (❦: dont do it just dont)

» emotionally constipated in terms of communication. he’s good at sorting through his own emotions himself, he just has trouble communicating that, but he tries his best. 

» not a headcanon but i hope we can all agree that he is THE nepo baby

» looks up to maki a whole bunch

» swore to never smoke ever

» isn’t judgemental, but thats just because he doesn’t gaf

» the reason he doesn’t feel comfortable using playful cloud is because he gets this feeling he can only describe as weird whenever he holds it, making his hairs stand on end.

its almost as if he has this connection to it, but it freaks him out.  gojo noticed, but kept silent. 

» pretends his music taste isn’t mainstream but it totally is. but not summery pop mainstream, more like alternative ‘what do YOU know about donald glover/kendrick lamar/tyler the creator’ mainstream

» really liked pandas as a kid but after being enrolled in tokyo jujutsu high he felt somewhat....conflicted.

» changed his favourite animal to wolves soon after.

» he totally has a type! he just didn’t want to tell todo.

OR alternatively, after the fight with todo he thought about it a bit more, and realised he does have a type, but will take that to his grave

(or so he thinks to himself before yuji eventually milks it out of him)

» really patient when a situation needs him to be. he’s very strong mentally because he's needed to be since he was a kid.

» prefers non-fiction books over fiction books. tried to read fiction books but they just didn’t interest him all that much. but, if his s/o liked fiction books…then perhaps he'd consider some.

» had like 6 people confess to him in one year in his previous school but he was weirded out and rejected them over text

» he's a visual learner but its mainly because if someone's telling him something he has a tendency to just space out and not listen or be able to process half of what they said. but sometimes he just does it on purpose LMAO

» He HAS to sleep at least 8 hours. He will not have it if he has to sleep less. Gets extremely irked, but will not say a thing if there's a good enough reason that he has to stay up/wake up early.

» has to fight back a smug smirk whenever nobara mentions his naturally long eyelashes

(❦: its not fair! advocate for equity in genetics!!!!)

(✧: it's definitely not a smile nor smirk, but saying ‘smug corner-of-his-lips-twitches-up-for-0.1-seconds’ doesn't really roll off the tongue)

feels so good to be writing again, you could not believe. these are so incredibly random LMAO but thanks for reading till the end <3 much love, lorre.

© lorre-verie on tumblr. do not translate, modify or plagiarise my works, nor repost it to other sites.

[timebambi]

class bias in arcane : the problem with the "vi can't read" headcanon.

the idea that vi never learned to read or write because she's from zaun is not only ridiculous and completely unsupported by the show, but always revolves around the stigmatization of zaunites in general and the uplifting of caitlyn. which is, obviously, very bad …

this is going to be a bit long, but i really wanted to explore this and share my thoughts, especially because this headcanon harms vi and other zaunite characters in the show indirectly. which is something i. hate. so. much. i just can't comprehend how people are still saying this.

vi can read. the show literally shows us this.

in season 2, vi says to jinx that the letter is from vander to silco. a letter. which is handwritten in manuscript. meaning she's actually reading. because it requires standard literacy skills. so, you know, she can read :)

and she's not the only one. jinx also reads the letter (if you somehow missed her cracking hextech in season 1). vander wrote it himself, meaning he was literate too. silco and vander put their initials on their jackets, just more proof that literacy isn't uncommon in zaun. literally, at no point in season 2 does arcane show a zaunite struggling to read or write.

season 1 already gave us clues about this.

this isn't even new information. in season 1, episode 1, vi searches jayce's lab for valuables to steal, but she still stops to look at the books. that's not something you do if reading is completely foreign to you.

she also looks at jayce's research board, which is covered in scientific notes and calculations and immediately realizes she's in an inventor's workspace. if reading were completely unfamiliar to vi, that mess of writing would just look like abstract symbols or nonsense to her. but no. she can process enough of it to understand what it means.

and let's not forget powder. well, maybe i'm reading too much into that, so you can ignore this if you want. but in the same episode, she picks up a book and seems to read a line before closing it. it doesn't seem to me that she’s staring blankly at the page, but that her eyes are actually following a line of text.

so if vi’s younger sister could read at that time, why wouldn't she ?

zaunites aren't illiterate, arcane shows that over and over again.

okay. so, if vi knowing how to read is still somehow up for debate, what about the other zaunites ?

ekko is literally shown reading, writing, and eventually inventing a time machine in season 2. since this alternate universe shows zaun becoming like piltover, you'd expect a major difference between these two characters. i mean, according to some people, the undercity is full of the poor and uneducated, right ? so with piltover being more open, powder should have had more resources to develop her skills. if that were true, you'd think she'd notice ekko lacking in literacy. but nope. he's just as literate as the powder from that world, since they collaborated without any issues.

maybe i could add viktor. yes, arcane doesn't detail how viktor got into piltover's academy, but his official lore confirms that viktor's intelligence was recognized early, he was already deeply knowledgeable in science as a child, working alongside singed and so later, he was brought to piltover and caught the eye of heimerdinger. i just don't see how any of this would be possible without being literate. there's no way he'd get into the academy without knowing how to read or write.

so, now the question is : why them and not vi ?

why wouldn't vander make sure vi and powder could read ?

again, if you somehow missed that jinx can read and write in season 1, or if you still think that doesn't necessarily mean vi can, and to answer "why them and not vi ?", let's go over this.

nothing in arcane suggests that zaunites are generally illiterate, it's actually the contrary (e.g. ekko, vitkor, silco, vander), so why would vander's kids be the exception ? and if one of them had to be, why vi ? especially when both vi and powder didn't have to work in the mines thanks to vander. no but this alone shows that he invested in their well-being beyond just survival, so why wouldn't that also include making sure they had basic literacy ? even if their parents didn't teach them first, what reason could vander have to not teach vi and powder when he can read and write himself ?

actually, it makes even less sense to assume that the sisters never learned to read, considering they were more privileged than many other kids in zaun, especially since vander kept them out of child labor.

the "vi can't read, so caitlyn teaches her" headcanon is just ... gross.

now let's talk about how this headcanon is not just a silly fandom theory, but something harmful.

there's this recurring fandom trope where caitlyn, the wealthy piltover enforcer, teaches vi, the poor ex-prisoner from zaun, how to read. and it's always framed as something "cute" or "romantic."

except … it's not.

this plays directly into the class divide between them. caitlyn already comes from a position of power and privilege. framing vi as this uneducated, illiterate street kid who needs caitlyn to "civilize" her completely strips away vi's intelligence and independence. it infantilizes her, turning her into some kind of "fixer-upper" project rather than the strong, capable person we know she is.

and after season 2, this headcanon feels even worse. it's as if the fandom is desperate to preserve a "wholesome" version of their relationship, even if it means making vi less than she actually is. if the only way to keep caitvi looking healthy for some of you is to belittle vi's intelligence and reinforce a savior dynamic, then maybe the ship isn't made for you anymore.

this headcanon needs to die.

i guess i have to conclude with the fact that nowhere in arcane is there any real evidence that vi is illiterate. if anything, the show gives us multiple signs that she, and many other zaunites, can read and write just fine. also, the idea that she can't isn't just wrong, it's rooted in a fandom bias that constantly downplays her intelligence while uplifting caitlyn's role in her life.

[cannibal-wings]

Hey so, just a friendly reminder. I have not, and will never use generative AI to write my fics.

I've made my stance on the use of generative AI pretty clear, I think it's a huge waste of energy and time, and in its current form, both text and image generation is built off of plagiarism in massive amounts. It's completely unethical, to me, to use these programs in creative works. Especially in creative works you post as yours.

I will continue to never touch these programs for the rest of my creative career. I got this far on my own hard work, and I will continue doing so. I have zero interest in letting a machine do the one thing I find joy in.

I write, both fanfic and original, for the joy of sharing stories. I create to share a bit of myself with others. A machine could never understand that.

It's a losing battle, I know. So much of our writing, our drawings, our own photos, have been fed into these machines. It's becoming inescapable no matter where you look. I continue to post online knowing that with each update, I'm feeding this machine unwillingly. Fanfic is fed directly into character ai, our tweets and blogs are getting scraped, everything. And I desperately want people to understand that if an artist who has been creating for years, puts something out that looks kinda like AI, to stop for a moment and consider: maybe it does because that person's whole archive has been devoured and regurgitated over and over.

Of course some people have pivoted to using it and vigilance is key, but don't just blindly accuse someone without damn good proof to back you up.

[axelsagewrites]

Felix asking a shy girl out would include:

Felix x shy!reader

Word count: 546

Warnings: none

Masterlist here

Felix doesn’t even know the definition of the word shy

You were in one of his classes and always sat near the front and kept to yourself

He often found his gaze drifting from the lecture to you

When he did introduce himself at the end of the class your reaction stuck with him

“Hi I’m Felix. I don’t think we’ve met,”

He remembers the way your cheeks-tinged pink, and you began to stutter a greeting before making an excuse to leave

So, when the professor announced a group project was coming up Felix instantly offered to pair with you

You were relieved at not having to struggle to find a partner, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t intimidated

Felix was used to being loud, but he soon noticed how quiet you spoke and followed suit

Though he did love seeing you embarrassed

Not like embarrassed embarrassed

But he did love to compliment you to watch you squirm a little

“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful your eyes are?”

“Is that a new top? It looks amazing on you,”

“How does a pretty girl like you still single?”

Felix tried to invite you to parties, but you never accepted

The project took about three weeks to complete, and you had to see him at least twice a week on top of classes

So, when you finally completed the project, you decided to take the plunge

“Do you want to maybe get lunch sometime? We don’t have to its only if you’d maybe wanna go- “

“I thought you’d never ask,”

Felix realised when he was getting ready for the date, he’d never been on a date date before

He’d went to parties, hooked up, went to fancy dinners but that was always with 20 other people

Now he was sat waiting for you in a coffee shop feeling oddly nervous

“Hi, hey, hello,” he greeted, standing up with an awkward handshake to hug to greet you

“Hi,” you breathed out, looking so much more relaxed now compared to when you first met

You stayed in the coffee shop for around two hours just chatting away

You only left because they were closing

Felix suggested walking the long way back

He did notice your blush return when he took your hand in his

God did he love when you got all shy

Especially when you got back to campus, and everyone was staring

You started looking at the ground all shy

But Felix just dropped your hand so he could drape his arm round your shoulder instead

“They’re only looking because of how good you look,”

Felix was desperate to kiss you when he got you to your dorm, but he didn’t want to push you too far

“I’ll text you yeah?”

“Yeah course,” you said

Felix stepped back, about to walk away when you suddenly grabbed his wrist

It took everything in you to tug him closer

But Felix quickly got the hint

The kiss was short and sweet

But it knocked all the air out his lungs

It was all he could think about as he walked back to his dorm and wondered how soon was too soon to text you

He only lasted till he got back in his room

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[jstor]

I saw something about generative AI on JSTOR. Can you confirm whether you really are implementing it and explain why? I’m pretty sure most of your userbase hates AI.

A generative AI/machine learning research tool on JSTOR is currently in beta, meaning that it's not fully integrated into the platform. This is an opportunity to determine how this technology may be helpful in parsing through dense academic texts to make them more accessible and gauge their relevancy.

To JSTOR, this is primarily a learning experience. We're looking at how beta users are engaging with the tool and the results that the tool is producing to get a sense of its place in academia.

In order to understand what we're doing a bit more, it may help to take a look at what the tool actually does. From a recent blog post:

Content evaluation

Problem: Traditionally, researchers rely on metadata, abstracts, and the first few pages of an article to evaluate its relevance to their work. In humanities and social sciences scholarship, which makes up the majority of JSTOR’s content, many items lack abstracts, meaning scholars in these areas (who in turn are our core cohort of users) have one less option for efficient evaluation. 

When using a traditional keyword search in a scholarly database, a query might return thousands of articles that a user needs significant time and considerable skill to wade through, simply to ascertain which might in fact be relevant to what they’re looking for, before beginning their search in earnest.

Solution: We’ve introduced two capabilities to help make evaluation more efficient, with the aim of opening the researcher’s time for deeper reading and analysis:

Summarize, which appears in the tool interface as “What is this text about,” provides users with concise descriptions of key document points. On the back-end, we’ve optimized the Large Language Model (LLM) prompt for a concise but thorough response, taking on the task of prompt engineering for the user by providing advanced direction to:

Extract the background, purpose, and motivations of the text provided.

Capture the intent of the author without drawing conclusions.

Limit the response to a short paragraph to provide the most important ideas presented in the text.

Search term context is automatically generated as soon as a user opens a text from search results, and provides information on how that text relates to the search terms the user has used. Whereas the summary allows the user to quickly assess what the item is about, this feature takes evaluation to the next level by automatically telling the user how the item is related to their search query, streamlining the evaluation process.

Discovering new paths for exploration

Problem: Once a researcher has discovered content of value to their work, it’s not always easy to know where to go from there. While JSTOR provides some resources, including a “Cited by” list as well as related texts and images, these pathways are limited in scope and not available for all texts. Especially for novice researchers, or those just getting started on a new project or exploring a novel area of literature, it can be needlessly difficult and frustrating to gain traction. 

Solution: Two capabilities make further exploration less cumbersome, paving a smoother path for researchers to follow a line of inquiry:

Recommended topics are designed to assist users, particularly those who may be less familiar with certain concepts, by helping them identify additional search terms or refine and narrow their existing searches. This feature generates a list of up to 10 potential related search queries based on the document’s content. Researchers can simply click to run these searches.

Related content empowers users in two significant ways. First, it aids in quickly assessing the relevance of the current item by presenting a list of up to 10 conceptually similar items on JSTOR. This allows users to gauge the document’s helpfulness based on its relation to other relevant content. Second, this feature provides a pathway to more content, especially materials that may not have surfaced in the initial search. By generating a list of related items, complete with metadata and direct links, users can extend their research journey, uncovering additional sources that align with their interests and questions.

Supporting comprehension

Problem: You think you have found something that could be helpful for your work. It’s time to settle in and read the full document… working through the details, making sure they make sense, figuring out how they fit into your thesis, etc. This all takes time and can be tedious, especially when working through many items. 

Solution: To help ensure that users find high quality items, the tool incorporates a conversational element that allows users to query specific points of interest. This functionality, reminiscent of CTRL+F but for concepts, offers a quicker alternative to reading through lengthy documents. 

By asking questions that can be answered by the text, users receive responses only if the information is present. The conversational interface adds an accessibility layer as well, making the tool more user-friendly and tailored to the diverse needs of the JSTOR user community.

Credibility and source transparency

We knew that, for an AI-powered tool to truly address user problems, it would need to be held to extremely high standards of credibility and transparency. On the credibility side, JSTOR’s AI tool uses only the content of the item being viewed to generate answers to questions, effectively reducing hallucinations and misinformation. 

On the transparency front, responses include inline references that highlight the specific snippet of text used, along with a link to the source page. This makes it clear to the user where the response came from (and that it is a credible source) and also helps them find the most relevant parts of the text. 

[forsaken-headcanons]

in an AU where Chance is a robot...

[heavy credits go to https://pin.it/16oorotS4 THIS GUY for the inspiration I got to incorporate nuts and bolts into this gambler!]

[lots of these are based on how I play Forsaken]

-Over time, especially with older maps, Chance internally mapped out the whole layout of every map, and pointed out certain POIs. These include:

> The killer's relative spawn location, and the area farthest from it

> All known medkit spawns

> All possible generator locations

-He bleeds purple. Think of it like Thirium from DBH

-UNLIKE ME, he has immaculate aim. Unbarred from human error, as a machine, he is an absolute beast at aiming, coming outta nowhere from behind a wall to noscope the killer.

-[this is where I begin to take inspiration from the aformentioned user] Chance's glasses are literally part of his face. some visor shit. Taking it off is like taking off a TV's screen itself.

-on his torso is a literal coin slot. yes a coin slot. and that's how he's powered on, through the coin slot. like an arcade machine, one coin = one month of constant activity, if you don't count internal system repairs during sleep mode. Chance usually starts off with 12 every year, and has an internal alarm clock to remind him of when time is almost up.

-what remains of the cash in Elliot's wallet is literally the only thing keeping him alive.

-when he turns on, his glasses display a slot machine hitting 777s, or JACKPOT

-he has a full combat mode. like full on laser cannons for arms type of deal. but y'know the Spectre, THAT GUY probably somehow blocked off the directives concerning that full combat mode.

-he programmed a string of code so that when he successfully shoots someone, internal audio plays the jackpot sound effect (this is true for me, I have that set as my hitsound)

-he's VERY good pals with Builderman, being the only mechanic amongst them. asks for repairs and maintenance from him a lot, which led to them becoming close buddies.

-his creator is named Lady Luck. not much is known about her except for that she's one of the richest people in Robloxia, barring Admins. they are mother and son :)) [she's fucking dead by the way]

Might add more. Remember this signature

- 🌟

Ooooh, robot chance..... neat. Also, I'll try to remember you, 🌟 anon :)

Quick edit to add in the Pinterest img, posted by the original artist on there. Their @/s are labeled on the image and typed in the alternate text.

[novella-november]

Because I keep seeing this in various works and questions in various writing groups:

If you have a character that uses neopronouns, you need to explicitly state that within the text.

You need to use those pronouns within the text.

You need someone to accidentally use the wrong pronouns for someone they've just met (before they're properly introduced) and have them be corrected, and swap to the correct pronouns-- without making a big deal about it.

Accidentally misgendering a character who uses neopronouns does not need to be a world-ending catastrophe or the gravest insult in the world if you just actually write characters who respect other people and don't argue about pronouns being 'too confusing'.

Unless someone is wearing a pronoun pin, or cultural symbols that denote whatever Official Third Gender they belong to, or a species that generally all uses the same pronouns for each other, no one should ever just magically know exactly what neopronouns someone uses, unless your character is a mindreader.

Having it just be ~magical knowledge~ that someone you've never met before who uses a pronoun set you've never heard of before, just takes away the actual real world work of normalizing asking for / telling someone your pronouns if you use ones that are not considered standard.

Making characters all magically know the second they meet someone what those person's pronouns are reads less to me as a fully queer-accepting society, and more like a society that simply has extra sets of enforced genders with specific pronouns that are assigned to people based on what they look like-- especially if the people with neopronouns in question never express any ounce of queer joy at being referred to as such, never express any common queer experiences...

....and most certainly not when they exist only as a random background character who gets shoved off screen after a single page, never to be seen again because the author is trying to score points with a queer audience without actually putting in the work and care needed, shoving the character off screen just fast enough not to alienate the queerphobes reading, while baiting the queer readers into thinking the story is more progressive than it is with the hopes that background character will come back and be an actual... you know. Character?

Some examples of neopronouns and how you can, quite effortlessly, introduce a character who uses them:

"Hey, who's that? His clothes are really neat, I would love to know who did the dye work." "Huh? Oh, that's Cheran, ze actuallly uses ze/zem pronouns." "Oh gotcha, thanks! I'll definitely ask zem if they know who did zer dye work!"

2.

Turning to face the class for the first time since the bell struck, I saw that most of my students this time were of the Melique species, a species of monoescious bipeds. We did a round of introductions, and most of the Melique used the standard pronoun set of 'zi/bur', but there were a small handful of students who used new sets, with three consisting of the set 'aey/ayr' and the other two using 'he/him' and 'they/them' pronouns, no doubt taking inspiration from their human classmates, quite a few of whom had been similarly inspired by their non-human classmates. It was always a pleasant experience, getting to see shy, budding youth discovering new ways of describing themselves, and it made me even more proud to display the pronoun tag under my nametag, so that they would all know they had a safe person to talk to if they needed it. Out of all the things that could come about from first contact with other sentient life, the delightful cultural exchange of linguistics and words to describe personal identity was ranked second on my list of favorite things. The first thing on the list was finding out that other sentient life was just as varied and beautiful and diverse and queer as humanity.

3.

"And this is Ada." Jon said, pointing at me. "Well, it certainly looks like a fine machine, but are you sure it's up to the task?" Yana asked, only glancing briefly in my direction before looking back at my designer, who was in charge of negotiating the contract. Me and Yana had met briefly before, but never in any formal capacity, and he had never seen me at work. "I can handle it just fine." I pipped up, "And I don't use it/its pronouns any more, I decided I'm a boy, and I'm using key/ker pronouns now." Jon sighed; I had promised to be professional this time and not interrupt, but woops, I couldn't resist! Yana blinked down at me for a moment, clearly processing my words, before he nodded curtly. "Thank you my boy, I will keep that in mind." And then he and Jon went right back to business, but I couldn't hide my smile every time that Yana referred to me with my new pronouns.