#interview questions and answers for interview

[blackcoffee-plants]

Here is the main section of the conclusion:

“The LLM undeniably reduced the friction involved in answering participants' questions compared to the Search Engine. However, this convenience came at a cognitive cost, diminishing users' inclination to critically evaluate the LLM's output or "opinions" (probabilistic answers based on the training datasets). This highlights a concerning evolution of the 'echo chamber' effect: rather than disappearing, it has adapted to shape user exposure through algorithmically curated content. What is ranked as "top" is ultimately influenced by the priorities of the LLM's shareholders [123, 125].

Only a few participants in the interviews mentioned that they did not follow the "thinking" [124] aspect of the LLMs and pursued their line of ideation and thinking.

Regarding ethical considerations, participants who were in the Brain-only group reported higher satisfaction and demonstrated higher brain connectivity, compared to other groups. Essays written with the help of LLM carried a lesser significance or value to the participants (impaired ownership, Figure 8), as they spent less time on writing (Figure 33), and mostly failed to provide a quote from theis essays (Session 1, Figure 6, Figure 7).”

So wow the headlines around this are no where near the conclusions of the study. The study compares essay writing abilities using an LLM or search engine. Both essay types were scored well, but the search engine group scored a bit better as their essays were more creative and unique. The LLM group all said the same things.

The part I found really interesting was “ownership” of the work felt by the search engine group. They were able to quote their own work, and felt like they actually created their essay.

I think it is very important for humans to feel like they can create and accomplish. Using AI takes that self efficacy you get from doing hard things away. It makes you more anxious to do things you haven’t done before.

[hearteyes4logan]

mic'd up — ln⁴ lando norris x fem!reader requested by no one word count: 751 words! fluff

Gif by @zyonsay on Tumblr!

synopsis: lando publicly launches your relationship through an interview

McLaren Paddock — Thursday, Media Day

It was the usual pre-race chaos. Content crews running around with mic packs and clipboards and PR reps reminding drivers to smile just enough but not too much, and the smell of baked goods and caffeine lingering from the nearby hospitality.

You stood off to the side, chatting with one of the female McLaren engineers — not exactly blending in, but you didn't wanna make yourself the centre of attention either. You had gotten used to that, being here but not in it, for the press only cared for F1 WAGS if their significant Formula One drivers were with them.

But of course, Lando always noticed you.

He was supposed to answer light, rapid-fire questions for Instagram with Oscar: "What's your favourite cheat meal?" "Describe your teammate in 3 words or less." "What's something you haven't told one another since being teammates?"

He'd barely gotten through two questions before his eyes flicked over the shoulder of the interviewer and landed on you. He watched as you laughed softly, most likely at a joke, as you held a hand to your mouth, containing your laughter. Lando couldn't help but smile. Not the media-trained one, but a genuine smile as his face crinkled slightly at the corners.

"Hey, Lando. You're mic'd up. Stay on the mark." Someone called out when he started walking off-camera but he just waved a hand over his shoulder. Oscar watched, not surprised that he was heading towards you as he suppressed a laugh and shook his head smiling before telling the media team he could film a video by himself for now.

You turned just as he got to you, a little startled to have the 5'7 whirlwind of curls and arms wrapping around your waist from behind.

"Lando!" You laughed. "Aren't you filming right now?"

"Mhm." He buried his face into the crook of your neck. "Don't care. Oscar can handle them and you looked too good to ignore."

"Oh my god." You muttered under your breath, feeling your cheeks go warm.

He pulled back just enough to have a look at you. "You're glowing."

"I'm wearing sunscreen." You teased.

"Whatever, still counts."

You glanced at the camera crew, who had their lenses pointed at both of you. You eyed Oscar taking off his mic pack, guessing he had finished his interview, and the media team could not resist the opportunity to get a good moment. Lando noticed you tensing up as he lowered his voice only to a whisper.

"Let them film." He said gently. "Let them know."

You met his eyes, and that was it. The identity of your relationship? Unveiled. The F1 community, especially the McLaren fanbase, will really know the woman their beloved driver has been dating behind the scenes. The rumours and guesses will die down once this goes public.

He kissed your cheek — slow as he turned back toward the film crew like nothing ever happened. "Sorry lads." He called out. "Got distracted by my girl."

One of the producers mouthed:'That's going viral' behind the camera another one types on their iPad: "Lando Norris confirms girlfriend?"

You just stood there, heart racing and trying not the smile too much. The McLaren engineer you were talking too awed at the sight before he got called off to help with some analytics.

Later that night back at the hotel room Lando and you both shared, you opened your Instagram to find a post from McLaren:

🧡 "Name one thing you can't live without." 🎥 Oscar: "My family.. Erm, yeah that's about it." 🎥 Lando: "My girlfriend, she's my support and my everything."

The clip blew up, and your DMs were flooded with message requests from fans. Every social media platform exploded — Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, you name it.

He joined you after he had finished taking a quick and short shower as he held his phone up. "I told you." He said, shuffling onto the bed in nothing but trackpants. "They were gonna eat this up."

You rolled your eyes. "You're insufferable Norris."

"Yeah.. but now I'm publicly yours." He pulled you into his arms as you lay on his chest.

"Great.. Now I have to fight half the girls in the world having their lives ruined right now because of this information."

He kissed the top of your head.

"Good because they can go through me too."

You softly slapped his chest, earning a laugh from him.

"God, hope not." You rolled your eyes.

"You're mine and mine only."

© hearteyes4logan

[sevsevteen]

The set was all soft lights and fake laughter.

You sat between Mingyu and Joshua, smiling on cue, answering questions about the group’s upcoming tour. The interviewer - elegant, poised, all teeth and charisma - nodded along enthusiastically.

“Oh, it must be so hard keeping up with thirteen boys, right?” she said sweetly. “They must carry a lot of your weight.”

You laughed politely. “Actually, we all pull our own. They’ve taught me a lot.”

The cameras loved that.

Flash. Cut. Cue applause. Wrap.

But once the red light on the camera faded, so did the interviewer’s mask.

She barely waited for the director to call cut before twisting in her chair, speaking low to her assistant just behind her - but just loud enough.

“God, finally. If I hear the word teamwork one more time, I’ll throw up.”

You froze.

Mingyu's jaw tightened beside her.

“All that rehearsed 'we're a family' crap. Please. Half the group barely talks during breaks,” she scoffed, tossing her cue cards aside.

The assistant awkwardly tried to whisper something, but the interviewer waved her off.

“She’s cute, I’ll give her that,” the interviewer motioned her chin lazily toward you, not even trying to lower her voice now. “Pretty face, decent voice. But clearly riding on their tails.”

The room fell still.

Wonwoo, who had been grabbing water bottles, paused mid-step. Hoshi’s smile dropped. Even Vernon looked up from his phone.

The assistant gave a nervous laugh. “They were trending, though. Their last album—”

“Because of the other producers behind it,” she cut in coldly. “Not because of them. I mean, let’s be real - if they were really that good, they’d be solo by now.”

That was it.

“Excuse me?” Mingyu said sharply, standing.

The room turned.

The interviewer blinked up, all innocent now. “Oh? Did you hear that?”

“Loud and clear,” Hoshi said, voice low with fury. “You don't get to disrespect our achievements like that.”

“Oh, come on,” she laughed. “Don’t get so emotional. I’m just being honest. I figured someone needed to say it.”

Then she stood - heels clicking on the floor - and added with a smirk, “Besides, what are you gonna do? Hit me? You can’t. I’m a girl.”

And then - a shove.

A bold push to Hoshi’s chest.

He stepped back in stunned silence, fists clenching. He didn’t retaliate - of course he didn’t - but the tension in the room sparked like lightning.

And that was when you stood up.

Calm. Controlled.

Until -

"Ah!"

A hard shove right back into the interviewer’s shoulder. Not aggressive. But firm.

Balanced.

Equal.

“I think you're forgetting that I’m a girl too,” you said, stepping between them and the woman. “I have just as much right to speak up when someone crosses a line.”

“You!” The interviewer lunged with her hands up.

Wonwoo was by your side in a second, pushing you behind himself. His arm half-shielding, gaze trained on the woman like a loaded weapon.

Seungcheol was on his feet a second later, stepping forward to catch her wrist in mid-air.

The interviewer staggered slightly, stunned for a beat too long.

“Try me again.” You threatened, gaze unwavering as you pushed Wonwoo aside lightly.

The interviewer opened her mouth - but before another word could leave her lips,

Wonwoo stood beside, voice cold as stone. “Say one more thing about her. See if your mic is the only thing that cuts out.”

“That’s enough,” Seungcheol thundered, voice like steel. “We came here as professionals. And we expect the same in return.”

The interviewer scoffed, brushing herself off. “You idols think you’re invincible.”

“And you think hiding behind your gender gives you immunity,” Wonwoo said, voice like ice. “But harassment is harassment. If anyone touched her the way you just touched Hoshi, we’d be calling security.”

The assistant was already tugging her away, murmuring apologies. The woman huffed, storming off, heels clicking violently against the studio floor.

No one spoke.

The staff were frozen.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“This interview’s over,” Jeonghan said coolly, stepping in. “Thank you for your hard work, we’ll be taking our leave now.”

The team walked out together - you at the center, flanked by members who barely blinked now without checking if you were okay.

“Hey,” Mingyu said, nudging your hand gently. “That was a legendary move.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I just… I couldn’t let her say that.”

Jeonghan placed a gentle hand on your back. “You handled it better than any of us could.”

You cracked a tiny smile. “My hand’s still shaking.”

“It should,” Seungkwan said. “You could’ve sent her flying.”

“She should be glad it wasn’t Seungcheol-hyung,” Hoshi muttered.

From the side, Seungcheol cleared his throat, clearly hiding a proud smile.

You met his eyes and smiled - tired, but fierce.

With a reckless action like that, you knew you were in for a lecture when everyone got into the van.

But for now, you knew your members would have your back no matter what - and so would you.

--

[belli5]

⌗ . ᵎᵎ ⸝⸝ Current Boyfriend.ᐟ ೀCB⁹⁸

doing the current boyfriend on Connor, because you know how tiny bit sensitive he gets when it comes to you.

˚₊· ᥫ᭡ Connor Bedard x fem!reader ➜ Fluff. Note:No joke, i have an unhealthy obsession with Connor😭 Blessed yall with two fics in a day, hope yall are grateful😋 masterlist.

Some things were just too perfect to pass up.

Like the way Connor always got a little flustered when the spotlight wasn’t on his game, but on you and him. Or how he acted unfazed in interviews but turned into the most adorably defensive boyfriend when anyone even joked about you not being completely obsessed with him.

So when you were scrolling TikTok in bed that morning, your thumb paused on a video where a girl called her boyfriend “my current boyfriend”

You didn’t even need to watch the full clip. Just the guy’s offended expression when his girlfriend introduced him like he was temporary.

Immediately, your brain lit up. Connor. This. You had to.

By the time he came home from morning skate, hoodie wrinkled, cheeks pink from the cold, you were already piecing together how to pull it off.

“Hey babe,” you greeted, stretching from your spot on the couch as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. “You wanna film something cute with me real quick?”

He tilted his head, suspicious. “Like… what?”

You shrugged casually. “You know, people always ask how we met, who said ‘I love you’ first, that kind of thing. I thought it’d be fun to just answer them on camera.”

Connor narrowed his eyes slightly. “You’re not gonna make me do one of those tiktok dances, are you?”

You grinned. “Not this time.”

He sighed like this was a lot of emotional labor, but you could tell he secretly loved doing stuff like this with you, even if he pretended otherwise.

So the two of you got cozy on the couch, your phone propped up on the coffee table. You fluffed your hair, double checked the angle, and hit record.

Connor looked relaxed next to you, his arm around your shoulders, one leg bouncing slightly as if his body couldn’t handle being still.

“Hi guys!” you chirped to the camera. “So, I’ve been getting a bunch of questions lately about my relationship, and I figured today I’d answer some of them.”

Connor glanced at you with a soft smile and waved. “Hey.”

You turned to him, still smiling, and added, “This is my current boyfriend, Connor.”

You said it so sweetly, so effortlessly, like you didn’t just throw a tiny grenade into his peaceful little world.

Connor’s smile faltered. Just a fraction. His head turned slowly toward you. “Wait—what?”

You kept your expression neutral. “My current boyfriend,” you repeated with a nod. “You know..”

He blinked. “What do you mean current?”

You fought the grin tugging at your lips. “Like.. the boyfriend I have right now.”

Connor leaned back slightly, confusion spreading across his face. “That makes it sound like I’m a placeholder or something.”

You shrugged, trying not to laugh. “I mean, technically speaking, you are the boyfriend I currently have.”

He scoffed. “Babe.”

You looked at him with innocent eyes. “What?”

He gave you the most heartbroken little look. “Babe, what the hell.”

You finally cracked, let out a little snort and buried your face in his hoodie. “I’m so sorry,” you mumbled into the fabric. “It’s a prank.”

Connor pulled back to stare at you. “Are you kidding me right now?”

You shook your head, grinning. “You should’ve seen your face. You looked so hurt.”

He looked down at you, lips parted in shock, then leaned back against the couch with a loud, betrayed sigh. “I thought you were trying to let me down on camera.”

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

Connor covered his face with one hand. “That’s evil. You’re evil.”

You moved closer, arms sliding around his middle. “Come on. You know you’re my forever boyfriend.”

[ladymarvel27]

A minor incident | Max Verstappen

Max Verstappen x journalist!Reader

Description: You lost your precious necklace.

Word Count: 700+

f1 masterlist

She rushed to the Red Bull garage with a thick bundle of papers in her hand only to strongly bump into one and only, du-du-du-ru, Max Verstappen. “I am sorry,” he chuckles as he helps her pick up the paper

“No, I am sorry,” she says as she hastily collects all the papers from the ground. His eyes landed on her necklace, “Your necklace is pretty.” Her fingers lightly brush the small necklace as she says a small “thank you,” and both of them leaves in rush.

In fact, the whole paddock was in rush. Thursdays are busy for the drivers, the PRs and her, the media.

Drivers had lined up for their interviews for each channel one by one. She had papers filled up with questions to ask for each of the drivers.

By the time the last driver, Max Verstappen arrived, she was exhausted, and so was he, asking and answering all these questions, mostly repetitive or silly.

She sighed in relief when the camera turned off and she could breathe. She was about to leave when Max brushed her shoulders lightly, making her turn around. “You’re not wearing you necklace?” He asks, pointing to his neck. She placed her hand on her collarbones to check for her necklace but didn’t felt it’s presence.

“It must have fell off when I bumped-” “Me,” he completed her sentence, “I am so sorry.”

“No-no-no, it’s clasp was already so loose,” she waves her hand, giving him assurance, “must have slipped off. I should go and check there.”

“I should help you search for it,” “You don’t have to, really,” “Oh, please let me help, you probably lost it in the red bull garage.” She shook her head, “You have a point.”

“Gosh, can’t find it!” She groaned, stepping up on the curb when she disbalanced, twisting her ankle. She was about to hit the ground when Max rushes to her side, “Whoa,” he immediately caught her and scooped her up his arms. She winced in pain.

“Are you fine?” She gritted her teeth, nodding slowly. “You’re not walking on that,” “Wait— you don’t have to—” she argues but Max tightened his grip around her. “I know I don’t have to,” he smirked. A wave of crimson washed over her face. She didn’t knew if it was from embarrassment or the way his arms felt around her.

Ten minutes later, she was sitting on a chair with leg propped on a chair, ice wrapped around her ankle. Yuki was hearing her talk through the sequence of events. “Are you fine now?” He asked.

“Yeah. But I lost my necklace.”

“Oh,” he says, giving, “Don’t worry, it was just a necklace. The important thing is you are fine.”

Her shoulders slumped, ���It’s just…it was given by my mom.” Just then, Max entered.

“Hey Max,” Yuki spoke to him. Max waves at him and stands awkwardly. He rubs the back of his neck and spoke, “Yuki? Umm… Christian was looking for you.” "Take care," Yuki says to you and leaves.

“Where were you?” She asked. Max puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out her necklace. “Went looking for this.”

“Omg Max, you found it!” She exclaimed with a bright smile on her face. Seeing her happiness, Max chuckles and hand her the necklace.

“Thank you so much,” she chimed and take it from him. “You’re welcome. By the way, how’s your ankle?” “Much better than before.” They both look down on her ankle which was a little swollen from the sprain.

“Can you walk?” He asks. She nods slowly and tries standing up, limping lightly as she walks. He immediately rushes to her side. “I should drop you to hotel.”

“No Max, I can-” “No, you’re not going alone. I will make sure to drop you by entrance.”

“But-” “No buts, you aren’t going by yourself like this, not on my watch.”

He stops his car in front of her hotel. “How is it now?” He asks pointing to her ankle. “It’s a lot better than before. Thanks Max, you helped me so much,” she spoke unbuckling her seatbelt. “Take care,” he says. She comes out of his car and closes the door, “good night, Max.” He greets her ‘good night.’

Just when she is walking away, Max calls her name. She turns to see him rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks flushed, “I was wondering if…” he hesitates, the crimson washing over his cheeks, “you want to grab coffee tomorrow morning.” She smiles brightly, “Of course Max.” “Great then. See you tomorrow morning, good night.” She waves him, “See you, good night!” She chimes brightly as she slowly walks into hotel. Max drives away, with a big smile on his face.

Taglist: @ice-man-goes-bwoah @itsjustvs4

Seperators credits: @saradika-graphics

[xblackreader]

Kitty’s Back - Rated E

Ariel Ecton x Bruce Springteen smut??? as requested YES. DLDR.

⟢ ⟢ ⟢ ⟢ ⟢

Bruce sat across from her, still half in his sweaty clothes, curls damp with post-show adrenaline and mischief glinting behind his eyes.

“You always start with the hard stuff?” he asked, voice low and raspy.

Ariel blinked, fingers tightening on her pen. “I… um, well, I figured we’d talk about the tour first, and then your… your latest album.” She cleared her throat, determined not to blush At his antics.

Bruce smirked, leaning forward to grab a water bottle from over her shoulder and locking eyes with her when he breath hitched at the proximity, “You’re from the Chicago Times, right? They usually send the old guys. you’re a little easier on the eyes.”

“That’s—” Her voice cracked, and she coughed. “That’s very cute. But I’m here to do a job.”

“Sorry, honey,” he said, eyes twinkling. “What’s your name again? Ariel?”

“Yes.”

“That’s real pretty. Like the mermaid.”

“Like the journalist.” She met his gaze, proud of the snap in her tone—until he grinned, wide and slow like honey.

“You always get this worked up, or is it just me?”

Ariel felt her cheeks go hot. “I’m not worked up.” She slightly whines out.

He leaned back with a chuckle at her pout, “‘course you’re not.”

And damn it, her pen did tremble just a little as she scribbled, “Interview began at 10:42 PM. Subject: insufferable.”

That flannel shirt he had shrugged on over his sweat-slicked tee was still unbuttoned, sleeves pushed to his elbows. Her eyes caught the edge of a faded tattoo on his forearm.

“You writing something flattering?” he asked.

“Something accurate.”

“Mm.” He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees now. “Let me guess—you’re new at this, but you’ve got something to prove. You dress like you don’t want anyone to notice you, but your questions say otherwise.”

Her brows lifted. “Are you interviewing me now?”

Bruce grinned. “Maybe I just like getting to know a pretty face when it’s sitting in front of me.”

Ariel laughed—an awkward, startled sound that made her cover her mouth. “You know this is wildly inappropriate, right?”

He nodded slowly. “And you’re still sitting here.”

She hesitated, then raised her pen, trying to regain footing. “Fine. New question. What keeps you coming back to the stage after all these years?”

Bruce scratched his jaw, thoughtful. “Hmm. There’s nothing like being wanted, is there?”

The air tightened.

Ariel looked down at her notebook, then back up at him, heat behind her eyes now. “So… you stay for the applause?”

He tilted his head, gaze lingering. “Nah. I stay for the ones who show up with real questions. Real hunger. Makes me feel alive again.”

A beat. Then, softer: “You didn’t answer my questions.” He says almost pouty.

“F- fine.” She huffs, “What?”

“You ever done this before?” His voice dropped just slightly, velvet over steel. “Or is this your first time?”

The heat flushed her face instantly, too fast to hide. “You mean—what do you mean?” she asked, feigning confusion, already knowing damn well what he meant.

Bruce grinned slow. “Interview. Or…” He gave a lazy shrug, letting it hang between them. “This.”

Her throat tightened. “I—I’ve interviewed people before.”

“Yeah?” he said, eyes narrowing like he didn’t believe her, or maybe just wanted her to squirm a little longer. “Anyone who looks at you like I do?”

Ariel blinked. “Mr. Springsteen—”

“Bruce,” he corrected smoothly.

“Bruce,” she echoed, firmer now, even if her voice did a little dip at the end. “I’m a professional. I came here to get your thoughts on your music, not to…”

“Fall for me?” he teased, smirking.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, more to herself than him, scribbling nonsense on the edge of her notebook. “This is so far off the rails…”

But Bruce just chuckled, eyes never leaving her. “You can ask your questions, darlin’. I’ll behave.”

And despite every nerve in her body telling her to get back on track, Ariel glanced up at him through her lashes and muttered, “Good. Because I’ve still got twenty minutes. And you haven’t answered mine, either.”

Bruce leaned back, arms stretched along the top of the couch like a lion giving her room to pounce—or run. “Baby, I’ll stay here with you all night.”

“I don’t need all night,” she replied, trying for sass but landing somewhere between breathless and brave. “Just enough to get the story.”

He grinned, slow and wolfish. “Then ask it.”

So she did.

“Why’d you stop writing love songs?”

That made him pause. His fingers drummed lightly against the armrest behind her, and the light in his eye dimmed just a touch—still warm, but quieter now.

“I didn’t stop,” he said after a moment. “I just got better at hiding ‘em.”

Ariel scribbled the words down, even as she felt them settle in her chest like a whisper. “Why hide them?”

Bruce shrugged, looking at her in that way again—like he saw things she hadn’t said aloud. “got sick of pretty girls like you with big brown eyes taking advantage of my big heart.”

She sighs heavily, exasperated, “Oh, spare me.”

“I’m serious, Ms. Ariel!” He smirks, “People get real funny when you show ‘em your heart. Either they take it or they drop it. That’s how I used to feel anyway.”

Her pen slowed.

“And now?” she asked.

“Now?” His eyes flicked to her lips. “I think I might be ready to let someone hold it again.”

Ariel’s breath caught.

The air in the dressing room suddenly felt too tight, like it belonged in a different kind of scene entirely. He looked at her notebook, then back at her. “That on the record?”

Her face falls back into a scowl he finds cute, “Will you be professional?”

Bruce smirked. “Depends. You gonna quote me? Or kiss me?”

Her jaw dropped open for a split second—long enough for him to laugh, deep and rich.

“I’m joking,” he said, not joking at all.

And Ariel, cheeks on fire, finally cracked a smile. “You’re a menace.”

He winked. “Yeah, but I’m your exclusive.”

And damn it, she really did forget her next question.

——

Ariel tucked a loose curl behind her ear and clicked her pen shut with a definitive snap, trying to reclaim her pulse and her pride all at once. “Well,” she said, standing and smoothing down her slacks, “I think that’s everything.”

Bruce leaned back against the couch like he’d just played a second round. “You sure? I could talk all night.”

“I know,” she muttered, collecting her things into a neat little stack like armor. “But some of us have deadlines.”

He watched her with that same lazy, amused interest, like she was an unsung lyric. When she crouched to zip up her bag, she felt it— that stare. She straightened, slinging it over her shoulder. Her notebook, the last thing left on the coffee table, fluttered open slightly.

Bruce reached for it.

“Hey—” she started, stepping forward, but it was too late. He had it in hand, flipping through her sharp scrawl and highlighted lines with an infuriatingly smug grin.

“‘Subject flirts shamelessly. Denies nothing,’” he read aloud, brow lifting. “That true?”

“Give it back, Mr. Springsteen.”

“Bruce.”

“Bruce,” she said, reaching for the notebook. “Give it back please.”

But he held it just out of reach, grinning wider now, the two of them caught in a ridiculous little tug-of-war. 

“I like when you say please.”

She reached again over broad shoulders, standing on her toes this time, and that’s when it happened—

His hand wrapped around her waist and tugged her tightly to his solid torso.

She froze and turned. Their faces were suddenly close. His fingers still curled around the notebook, hers curled around his bicep. His cologne hit her first—cedar and sweat and smoke—and then the heat of his body, and then—

“I can have a kiss now, Ms. Ariel?” He whispers, dark brown eyes taking in the curve of her lips, “I behaved.”

“No, you didn't. Not even once.” She responds, breathless.

The notebook dropped between them with a soft thud, forgotten on the floor and their lips meet. 

He kissed like he performed—intentional, hungry, practiced in how to build heat without haste. His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, fingers splayed, anchoring her like he was afraid she might slip away.

She should’ve pulled back. She knew that. She was a professional. This was her first major piece for the Chicago Times. She should be thinking about ethics, integrity, boundaries—any of it.

But all she could think about was the taste of his mouth, the faint rasp of stubble on her chin, the way he’d said Ms. Ariel like it was something precious.

When they finally parted, barely an inch remained between them. Her fingers were still curled into the sleeve of his flannel, and his forehead bumped lightly against hers.

“You always kiss your interviewers?” she whispered, voice husky.

“Only the ones who make me nervous,” he murmured back, eyes half-lidded and wrecked with want.

Ariel’s brows lifted in disbelief, breath catching. “You’re nervous?”

Bruce gave her a crooked grin, dimples flashing. “Baby, I haven’t been nervous in fifteen years… ’til you walked in here with that notebook and those big, pretty eyes.”

She bit her lip, unsure if she wanted to laugh or melt.

His hands wander until they settle themselves under the thick fabric of her sweater, pressing hot kisses over her neck as she lets his hands explore the expanse of her skin.

“You smell pretty too, all uptight and clean like flowers.” He says reconnecting their lips until she can see her tinted lip balm over his nose. 

Her laugh escaped in a breathless huff. “S–shut up.”

He nips at her bottom lip, “Speak like a lady, Ms. Ariel.” He grumbles, groaning when she tugs his hair in retaliation. “Oh, you like it rough, huh?”

He bends to tug her up by her waist, catching under her thighs as she wraps her legs around his waist and carrying her over to the dresser mirror.

“This is so—,” she whispered into the crook of his neck as he carried her across the room. “You are so fucking ridiculous.”

He stopped only when they reached the tall dresser mirror, its surface streaked slightly from time and fingerprints. The reflection was almost obscene—her flushed face, sweater hiked up around her brassiere, thighs clinging to his sides, and Bruce, hair wild, mouth parted, looking at her like she was the last verse of a love song he’d never dared to write.

He leaned her gently back against the dresser, his hands never leaving her. “I’m just a man,” he said, gaze dropping to her lips again, voice low and hoarse. “And you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Liar,” she muttered, half-laughing, half-melting, “Y- You’re gonna get me fired.”

“I won’t tell, if you don’t, baby.” 

He made quick work of her slacks, tugging them down her long legs with her assistance in lifting her slender hips. His fingers play with the hem of her underwear, before tugging his flannel and undershirt off and returning to the object of his gaze.

The dark patch in the apex of her womanhood enraptured him.

His eyes dipped lower, drinking in the wet spot blooming at the apex of her underwear like it was some kind of reward. Ariel couldn’t look at his eyes—not when her sweater was bunched up around her ribs, her bra shoved beneath her breasts, and her thighs clinging to either side of a man who’d been famous longer than she’d been writing book reports.

She felt so naked and so easy…

Bruce looked at her like she was sacred. Then he grinned like he was about to ruin her.

“You sure you want this, sugar?” he rasped, voice low and frayed. “’Cause once I start, I don’t know if I can stop.”

She nodded, or maybe she whimpered—she didn’t trust her voice. Not when he was rubbing his nose along the side of her neck like he had all the time in the world.

“Say it for me,” he demanded softly, but there was steel in it. One hand still anchored her by the waist, the other slid beneath her panties, fingers brushing heat and slickness. His brows twitched in satisfaction when she gasped, knees shaking.

Ariel swallowed, then gasped as his fingers found her clit. “I want it. Please?”

“Yeah?” he breathed, dragging the fabric down her legs and tossing it somewhere unseen. “And i got it for you, baby.”

He didn’t undress completely. Didn’t need to. She heard the clink of his belt, the soft drag of denim as he shoved his jeans down just enough. His hips pressed forward, cock heavy and hard against her thigh, and Ariel swore she lost her damn mind right then and there.

Bruce nudged her chin up with a single knuckle, forcing her to look in the mirror. “Don’t hide,” he whispered. “Look how fuckin’ pretty you are.”

Her sweater slid further up as he adjusted her, spread her wider, dragged her to the edge of the dresser until she felt the cool wood bite into her ass. Then he pressed inside her in one slow, deep thrust that made her eyes roll back.

“Oh—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he grunted, head bowed against her forehead. “Pretty tight pussy, fuckin’ heaven.” He roll his hips in a circle and she whimpered, pushing at his hips with one trembling hand,

“Don’t run from it, baby.”

Ariel tried to stay quiet—tried to be quiet—but he was merciless. Each thrust angled just right, each slap on her hips deliberate, and when she squirmed to shift the pace, he caught her hands, threaded his fingers through hers and pinned them above her head against the mirror.

“Keep still,” he murmured, brushing his mouth over her cheek. “Take it. You can take it.”

She didn’t know if she moaned or sobbed. 

“Thought you were gonna stay professional?” he teased, hips slamming into hers. “You came in here all buttoned up and bossy… look at you now. Makin’ a pretty little mess on my cock.”

His hand slid from her wrist to her throat, fingers wrapping around gently, holding her gaze in his own.

“You like that?” he asked, voice rough, eyes glued to hers. “Want a little more?”

Bruce’s rhythm deepened—harder, rougher—planting both hands on the dresser beside her hips like he needed the leverage to drive deeper. The mirror rattled behind her with each thrust, and Ariel’s breath caught in gasps she didn’t recognize as her own.

“Goddamn,” he grunted, eyes flicking down to where they were joined. “You’re fuckin’ perfect like this, baby. Fuckin’ soaked.”

Her hands scrambled against the muscles of his back before slipping up, around his neck, and into his hair again, playing with his ear lobes. He groaned into her collarbone when she tugged at the curls at his nape, but it wasn’t until she brought her lips to his ear, voice low and filthy, that he shuddered. Hips faltering.

“You like fucking pretty little reporters in dressing rooms, Mr. Springsteen?” she whispered, breath hot and sinful. “Like turning them out, stuffing them full while they wear their sweaters like good girls?”

With a wet grunt, he gasped, “F- fuck.”

“Bet you never had one talk b- back to you while you did it, huh?” she continued, teeth teasing the lobe of his ear. “You like when they talk back, don’t you?”

He cursed again, rougher this time and thrust up so hard her back arched off the dresser, one hand flying back to brace against the mirror. She groaned, breath stuttering, loving the way his control collapsed beneath her words.

“You gonna cum in me, Bruce?” she whispered, leaning back to pick his jaw up, holding his eye, “Gonna lose it inside a girl you tried to tease all night?”

His hips jerked at the sound of his name on her tongue, like it short-circuited something in him. He reached down, gripped the back of her hips hard enough to bruise, and thrust up again, again, again until she was a mess in his hands, sobbing and gasping into his neck.

“F—fuck,” he hissed, hand tightening on her hip, voice cracking, “Ariel, cum for me, honey.”

His fingers whipped around to rub gentle circles at her clit, playing her willing body like he plucked the string of that guitar watching them in the corner.

Her threshold broke, she gasped once and loudly, her eyes crossing and thighs trembling. Her mouth fell open against his neck as she cried out, soft at first, then louder when the wave hit her full force.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that.” She heard him coax, hips continuing to rsvish her at his chosen pace.

Bruce groaned at the sound of her falling apart like it unraveled something primal in him. He didn’t stop rubbing, didn’t stop thrusting—until her nails clawed down his back and she whimpered, overstimulated and too full, panting hot into his skin.

“Bruce—“ she begged, raw and desperate, “Please!” 

That was it.

His whole body stilled for a fraction of a second—like something sacred breaking open—and then he groaned, deep and raw, spilling into her with a trembling curse and her name punched out of his chest.

Her reflection was ruined—sweaty, wild-eyed, mouth swollen and pink. Her sweater was tangled beneath her arms, and Bruce looked like some beautiful disaster out of a dream: hair wrecked, eyes blown wide, his jaw dotted with bruises from her mouth.

“You okay?” he murmured, brushing the tip of his nose along hers.

She could barely nod. “Are you?”

“Yeah…” He leaned forward to peck her lips again, once then twuce. “That was off the record, right?”

“Shut the hell up please.”

“I like when you say please.”

⟢ ⟢ ⟢ ⟢ ⟢

so yeah. sorry.

[saywhat-politics]

June 18, 2025, 7:42 AM MST / Updated June 18, 2025, 11:48 AM MST

By Megan Lebowitz

WASHINGTON — Right-wing media personality Tucker Carlson clashed with Sen. Ted Cruz in an interview and posted a clip Tuesday night in which the senator was unable to answer questions about Iran.

"How many people live in Iran, by the way?" Carlson asked the Texas Republican.

"I don't know the population," Cruz responded.

"At all?" Carlson asked, prompting Cruz to reiterate that he did not know. "You don't know the population of the country you seek to topple?"

Asked again how he did not know Iran's population, the senator responded, "I don't sit around memorizing population tables." (The CIA estimated in 2024 that the country's population level sits at around 88 million.)

[halfadiamond]

News Flash

Phillip Graves x Journalist Reader

You’re just a newbie journalist looking to make a name for yourself. What you didn’t expect was for the man who has the media in a frenzy to agree to an interview with you but you didn’t expect to receive this kind of information.

Masterlist (no link until I figure how I want to do the layout for the masterlist)

CW: MDNI, sex (doggy style, creampie, overstimulation), Graves has a thing for breeding, strangers that hookup, you guys are being audio recorded (read story to understand)

You shouldn’t be here. Not someone of your experience, you’re just a newbie journalist, fresh out of school. No agency to call your own, but you couldn’t resist coming here. You can’t miss this scoop.

The Scoop?

A case of betrayal between two different men. You’re not exactly sure as to who the men are, but from what you overhear from the other journalists, they’re both important people.

You stand outside the doors that hold the Congressional Committee, you were lucky enough to get a spot where you could catch snippets of their conversation. Occasionally you hear the people inside murmur and then you hear the loud—

“Quiet in this chamber!”

Whatever was happening in there, you had to find out no matter what.

It’s a long meeting, you think you’ve been outside waiting at the doors for about three hours.

You consider this your practice in endurance in getting the scoop. A good journalist always has an infinite amount of patience when it comes to getting the scoop.

Your patience pays as you hear the door open, you take a step back as you see people coming out. Some of the news agencies start crowding the spectators, hounding them with questions, but you don’t pay much mind to them. You gotta think big and choose the right person to get that perfect scoop.

You’re pretty sure you see your targets when the media stops hounding the poor people trying to leave and start hounding two other people. They don’t get the opportunity to get close as security holds them off. You push your way into the front and see who the media is so desperate to talk to.

One of them is a bald man, you see his uniform and you know he’s definitely got the status of having the best information needed to get you out there. But he looks intimidating, as he has a cold look in his eyes as security helps him out.

It’s the next person that comes out. That grabs your attention, a man who’s way younger than the previous, who carries himself in a bit of an arrogant way. He definitely looks like the type of guy that’ll talk about anything that’ll bring the spotlight on him.

You begin considering your ways to grab his attention but it all goes to vain when you both lock eyes with one another. He ignores every other journalist and camera as he walks towards your direction.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around. You got a card?”

You feel your face heat up as you fumble through your little bag as you hand him a flimsy card. He takes the card and barks out a laugh. He introduces himself as Phillip Graves, and he decided that today was your lucky day as he made you an offer.

“You want the gossip don’t ya? Tell you what come over to my place and I’ll tell you.”

You probably should say no, that you don’t go to strangers' houses but this could be your big break— the one needed to get into a great agency so you agree quickly.

You arrive at his house right on time. You were expecting a big house, but surprisingly, it looks decent, not too big nor too small, just right. You follow the gravel path to his door and ring the doorbell.

It doesn’t take long for him to answer. He gives you a cocky grin as he leads you into his living room, taking a seat on the couch. You notice that on the coffee table that he has wine and glasses.

Why? What kind of interview did he think this was?

You try to ignore his wandering gaze as you set up your audio recorder and get your notebook.

You get situated on the couch, keeping a respectable distance from him. You take the quick chance that he’s distracted on his phone to look over at him.

He was attractive. Very attractive. But you think what’s the most attractive part of him was the air that he carried himself in. Confident and arrogant.

He gives you a side glance, feeling your stares and you let out a little gasp and turn away. If you had stayed looking at him, you'd have seen that cocky grin on his face.

You press the record button on your recorder, grab your notebook and review your questions. You try to calm your nerves. But it’s nearly impossible.

Did you think you would’ve landed here, interviewing the man who’s in the middle of a military scandal? Nope.

But you couldn’t screw this up.

Phillip definitely noticed your nervousness as he hummed himself a little tune and began pouring you two some glasses.

“You seem nervous. Why don’t you take a glass and loosen up.”

“That seems inappropriate. I’m just here for the interview.”

“Don’t think it’ll do you much good if all the recorder gets is your stammering.”

You wanted to give a snarky response but he was right. You were nervous and you weren’t really keen on hearing your stammers whenever you went back to replay the interview.

Just one glass what’s the worst that could happen.

Until one glass turns into two. Then three. Then it turns into you and him, talking about life, talking about the failed hookup you recently had and then to him offering to make it up to you.

You should’ve brought it back to what you were here for, but when it turns into you two kissing each other, on the couch, like you two were long distance lovers reuniting, you don’t find yourself caring.

You’re going to blame the wine for making you crazy. Because why else would you be here, clutching onto the couch cushions with your ass up high, back arched, as Graves kept slamming himself into you. Your poor notebook laid out on the floor with your questions scribbled onto the page.

Graves notices your notebook and he remembers what you’re here for, so he might as well give you what you need. While he’s fucking you into tomorrow, he’ll tell you what you need to know and he’ll enjoy seeing how pretty your ass looks. Win win for the both of you.

“This thing on?”

You hear Graves mutter to himself as he messes with who knows what. You think it’s your audio recorder but you can barely find it in yourself to care as his cock went back to hitting your g-spot.

You could barely comprehend what Graves was telling you. All you could hear was him mentioning betrayal, shooting, and working together. Though you’re not exactly sure at what the audio is going to collect, you think it’s going to be a mixture of your moans, his groans, and his story.

Eventually you feel him starting to slow down as he finally finishes his story. Instead of continuing on with what he’s doing, he chooses to focus on you.

“Why’s a pretty girl like you working? Bet you would make a fine mama.”

You should’ve barked back, said that you’re an independent woman, and you don’t need a man, certainly not one like him. But right now? You can’t help but let a loud whine as you feel yourself clenching around his cock. He definitely noticed it as he let out a soft groan at the feeling.

“Want me to make you a mama? You’d make me a happy daddy with all the cute babies you’re gonna give me.”

You moaned into the couch cushion as you felt him again starting to speed up. His cock prodding into your cervix, you feel too overstimulated, though you’re not exactly sure as to what is overstimulating you.

Is it the fact that you’re currently getting railed on the couch by a man you just met today? And you quite literally feel like you’re seeing stars.

Or is it because he seems to have a thing for breeding? But based on how you reacted you think you do too.

But now you think it’s because you feel one of his hands go down to slowly rub at your clit. If you weren’t such an overstimulated mess, you would’ve told him to stop rubbing so slowly. For now, all you can do is be a moaning and twitching mess with the rise of your orgasm coming closer and closer.

You whined loudly, pressing your face on the side of the couch.

“Please let me cum.”

You hear Graves bark out a laugh as he begins rubbing at your clit with a slightly more fervor.

“Yeah? You think you deserve it?”

You nodded dumbly as you felt yourself reaching the edge of your orgasm. You feel your hair being pulled back as Graves begins pushing his hips further into you.

“Alright then, pretty girl. Cum for me.”

You don’t wait much longer after, feeling the familiar shivers of an orgasm. You let out little choked moans as Phillip finally loosen his grip on your hair, letting you lay your head on the couch. You feel like even more of a twitching mess as you lay there.

Feeling as Graves began working on pumping himself into you. He works you through your orgasm before he finally empties himself into you, letting out a groan and a hiss of your name as he finally begins to slow down. You let out little moans as you feel the warm rush of his seed inside of you, and you hear a soft little wet sound as he slips out of you.

You feel something dripping down your thighs but you don’t get a chance to clean up before you feel Graves gather any of his seed dripping out of you and pushing it back into you.

“Look alive Princess. Night’s still young— we’re not stopping till I’m positive that I’m gonna be a daddy.”

So like I have all the other summaries written out, would it be preferable if I posted the masterlist (with summaries) and update it as I go along? Or would you rather just have me post the pairings like (Phillip Graves x Journalist Reader) then when I post the fic, I update it?

Tried to make dividers 🥲 hope it doesn’t look too blurry (The MDNI and the XOXO divider is mine! Other one belongs to @/saradika, not tagging them since it’s an NSFW story)

Trying to practice on writing NSFW, most likely will rewrite this when I feel more confident

[saymyname-aufic]

"Last question from the audience," the interviewer declared. "And, remember folks this is entirely anonymous! So, the question is for you both: what makes a good marriage?"

"Communication," Apollo said easily. "It might seem ridiculous to share every little thing with another person, but if you're going to build a life with a person you will be sharing every little thing. Even more than that. Marriage is a different beast to dating. So, yeah, communication is important."

The interviewer nodded as the audience clapped.

"Audrey, what is your answer?"

Do you think covid existed in the Season? Do you think that for 2020-2021 Zeus couldn't host two Seasons. He had to wait until 2022 when restrictions finally lifted?

I'm gonna assume that covid didn't exist for my own sanity

[thepeaklegendoffirstgen]

CHEST MONSTER

Don’t know what possessed me, maybe it’s the monsoon season or the latest ch , but here I am, with a Samuel fic 💀

The tea sat untouched. The atmosphere was so thick, not even a chainsaw could cut through it.

Your parents had been eagerly looking forward to meeting him, but the tattoos. Those tattoos rendered them speechless.

A man well over six feet, muscles bulging under a perfectly tailored suit, and a chest that could put many women to shame.

Your parents kept exchanging glances, clearly trying to say something. You awkwardly filled the silence with a comment about the weather.

Samuel calmly sipped his tea, seeing no need to speak, at least not yet. But when he finally set down his cup and saucer, everyone seemed to hold their breath.

"You have a lovely home, sir," he said with a measured tone and impeccable intonation.

Your dad immediately looked up, laughing nervously. “Well, it’s all thanks to her,” he said, nodding toward your mother. “She made this place what it is.”

Sensing an opportunity to shift the energy, you added, “Dad, did you know Samuel was once the president of a major company?”

Big mistake. Huge mistake. Why did you open your mouth? Now your father was definitely going to dig, and ask what kind of company would let its president look the way Samuel did.

“That was a long time ago,” Samuel quickly interjected. “Now I’m involved in other ventures, exploring and expanding wherever my interests take me.”

Was that sweat on your father’s forehead? And was your mother picking at her fingers again? A nervous habit. But why were they so nervous? You wondered.

Yes, Samuel had his ways. He certainly had days when things weren’t great. But on those days, he always kept his distance from you. You were relieved, yet a small part of you resented him for shutting you out when he struggled. You wanted to be there for him, even when things weren’t perfect.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” your mother asked, a bit too quickly.

“Yes, of course. Won’t we?” you replied, placing your hand over Samuel’s. He responded with a polite smile.

Dinner went surprisingly smoothly. The mood lightened, especially after your dad had a couple of drinks. His initial hesitation melted away, only to be replaced by relentless curiosity. He hit him with questions from every direction: how much money he made, why he wasn’t in college, where his income came from, and how he planned to sustain himself in the future.

Now you were the nervous one. Samuel’s patience had its limits, and the conversation was beginning to sound more like an interrogation. Anxiety flared within you.

But what followed eased your nerves entirely.

Samuel answered every question with sincerity. His respect never wavered. He spoke of how real-world results matter more than idealistic preaching . Yes, you caught that subtle dig... and how power and protection stem from influence and connections, which help you climb the ladder faster.

Shockingly, this impressed your father.

Your mother didn’t seem to mind either; in fact, she was practically beaming at you as your man spoke with dignity and grace.

Soon, the evening transformed into an animated discussion about business strategy and empire building. Everyone chimed in, but it was Samuel who kept stealing the spotlight with every word he said.

The night ended on a high note. As you were leaving, your dad even offered Samuel his business card, and he accepted it graciously.

On your way to the parking lot, Samuel loosened his tie and muttered under his breath, “You could’ve told me you were taking me to a job interview.”

Ah, here he was: grumpy, moody, always in business mode.

“It wasn’t a job interview. That’s just how these things go, you know?” you said with a grin. “But hey, if it was, then congrats because you passed with flying colours.”

You reached to ruffle his hair, only for him to playfully shove your hand away. Yet his arm still slipped silently around your shoulders as you walked together, content, happy, and relieved your parents were satisfied. Samuel had truly been a gentleman.

BONUS SCENE

“What a fine young man he was,” your mother cooed. “Sharp, too.”

Your father nodded in agreement. “Big brain, that one. As big as his chest.”

Oops 😬

Your mother turned to him, horrified. Disgusted, she stormed off, nostrils flaring. Your father scrambled after her, trying to explain in vague, panicked mutters.

[camiene]

affection behind a curtain - w. magical staff x reader

fluff, tension, strictly cutesy and weirdly awkward gift for @pearlescentparade + his followers

w. magical staff is thrown off guard by your constant persistence; thus his interest in piqued. determined to find out what you really want, he comes close to figuring you out. ...but not in a way that he expects. wk :: 3.4k a/n :: at the end

god, his eyebrow twitching, and out was a murmur. 

he pinches the bridge of his nose, irritated by a dilemma. an obvious dilemma, but a catastrophe nonetheless. who knew a person could be the cause of his stress? 

with the lengthy name of winged magical staff, or alternatively—wing, is a man full of deceit. phighters never knew it, nor did he do it with ill intent, but he was an incredible liar. take it as his icebreaker. he's witty, quick with words, and it was his life's work. and as his life's work, why would he ever shy away from it? 

each vowel that came from his mouth was wrinkled with perfection. saying the exact string of syllables that people like to hear, minimal yet calculated body language, fake laughter and smiles... it was all flawlessly orchestrated. 

so orchestrated, in fact, to the point where it became a subconscious for wing. it was complimentary to his life, and he finds himself lying in everyday conversations. 

conversations that didn't pertain to his career, conversations that didn't need a fib. he's in awe, and realizes the drawback of the faulty lifestyle. lying became second nature.

'course, he found it unnecessary, but his mouth is faster than his brain. all he could do now is laugh it off and continue with his life, because what can you do? tell the truth and expose yourself as a pathological liar? he wouldn't get a job anywhere!

so there he stands, on the streets of crossroads, dangling between the liar's tongue and a hero's sincerity. 

that is... until you came along. 

** 

the two of you met on a mere thursday, a day where wing was on "duty". something along the lines of collecting information from suspects through interrogations. but, nobody really knew that. to many, it looked like small talk and get-togethers rather than investigation. and that's how he likes it. or well, any "detective" would like it that way. the anonymity, the greatest cover-ups, it wasn't foreign to him. he was used to perfection, his motif of excellence. 

but when interviewing you, it was honestly the most suspicious conversation he's ever had. 

you kept dismissing questions, answering them as quickly as possible, and instead asked him some of your own. 

questions such as where he got his clothes from, or what trends he was into, such mindless nonsense! he couldn't understand any of it.

'course if it was actually everyday conversation, he'd be more than willing to cooperate with your silly quirks, but it was all too convenient. suddenly asking about normal, or what can be perceived as normal, things right after being interviewed? 

wing knew his methods of interviewing were slick, under the radar, but they could still guarantee a good response. responses that said a lot about an inphernals and be translated into data. but with responses like, "yeah... blue... anyway, what's your favorite this, do you like the cafe at that spot, did you like it when this thing was on air?" it was torture!

yet all he could do was smile and give answers he thought you'd like. despite his shock and irritation, the predetermined words already came out of his mouth. agreeing and giving half truths to everything you asked. if you were as suspicious as you came out to be, he couldn't bare anything to get found out. his precious work of keeping crossroads together would fall apart and he'd be, oh, so sad. 

...or something along those lines.

nonetheless, he couldn't let you get too close. anyone who suspected him is someone he should stray away from, no matter their intention. even if you simply were interested in small topics related to him, what would you get out of it? it's a question he couldn't wrap his head around.

and it's also a question he'd have to dismiss until later. he's a busy man, and he has to focus on other knicks and knacks about his life. hopefully when he's all busy with work and miscellaneous jobs, he'd forget all about you for the greater good.  **

he did not forget all about you.

wing shuffles through the loose notes in his bag and eventually finds what he's looking for. ah-hah! a note directly addressed for banhammer—signed cleanly with wing's signature. or well, his alias. 

on the low, as young inphernals call it nowadays, wing is a promising man who always carries information with him. information that can help with solving crimes, mysteries, you name it. matter of fact, he helped a months-long case on a criminal by giving a vague tip to the station once and scurried away in triumph. justice well delivered, he thought that day.

so ever since then, he's been dropping tips here and there to banhammer. happily writing with passion and coming up with different alias to hide his true identity. winged magical staff, or also known as pearl, parade, escent in his notes, would never be figured out. a perfect plan! 

in the midst of his extraordinary plan and scheming, he bumps into someone with a harsh shove.

"oh, gosh, i'm so sorry. i wasn't paying attention and--... ah." 

maybe the inpherno is a small place after all.

"ughhff... uuaahh..." you rub your shoulder where the collision was hit. for a soft looking guy, he hits hard. wonder how he is on the battlefield. "ow. no, really. it's fine... just a typical frid..... dd.... oh, oh!"

wing could only twitch a smile. he couldn't believe the person he'd been trying to ignore is now in front of him. what do you want? are you after him for realsies now? 

"wow, wing! hi!!" your voice is excited as ever, reminiscent of the first time you two met. "sorry i haven't been seeing you as much-- or actually, i should say sorry for bumping into you. i was totally zoned out, just came from a party haha."

a party, hm? 

this might be the first time you gave valuable intel on yourself. no quick one liners, no dodging questions... it was perfect. if all he had to do was catch you off guard by accidental touch, he would throw you into a wall by now. kidding! (mostly). 

"it's okay, i should've been looking at the road." his grin turns into a warmer one, a smile that welcomes guests at the door with complimentaries. how kind. "you said a party? it's kind of early to be leaving." he says, taking in the sunny warmth on his face. it's not so cold either. "don't they usually end at dawn?"

his eyes were closed, but he could guess the frantic look from your face. your awkward ah's and uhm's alongside the shuffling of your clothes. 

"hahaha, nahh... i'm the weird one who needed some fresh air. the party's still going though." your hands mess with the collar of your shirt, thumbs grazing the fabric. think it's polyester... or maybe cotton. you never pay attention to the tags. "too much booze, you know what i mean? felt like i was going to throw up."

can't handle liquor, presumably low energy person at gatherings... you've made yourself all too easy for him. 

"ohh." he coos, tilting his head as his curiosity perks up. what could make a seemingly normal inphernal question someone like him? he wasn't obvious, every lie was perfectly crafted—it didn't make any sense. come to think of it, could he be overreacting? maybe he misremembered your interaction, read it too closely. 

"your friends okay too? i mean, i've heard of a lot of parties where inphernals get in trouble. had to make a ton of calls one night." he laughs, but that is the truth. it was a tough night and he never wanted to hit the bed more than that day.  

you almost sound surprised. "wow... you sound older when you talk like that. n-not saying that caring about others is only for old people— i mean, uh, how do i say this. you sound mature!"

".....mat...ure..?" wing could almost cringe at the awkward exchange, but he only chuckles. one that was made genuinely or not, it didn't matter when the sound overtook his body. "what-- haha, hahaha—" it's like a hiccup in his throat, and he feels the crinkles forming in the corners of his eyes. 

you turn to him with a dumbfounded look, mouth slightly parted as you take in the sight. the embarrassment you previously had is now gone, nowhere to be seen. and instead, it's replaced with a continuation of his laughter. you're laughing with him! 

"ah, haha, i'm so sorry. i don't— i don't know what came over me." he wipes a droopy eye, coughing as he regains his posture. "i just didn't expect you to say that. you said i sounded old??"

he hears your frantic excuses, words scrambling to find the right diction, and hands flailing around. given any other scenario, he'd find it obnoxious. it's just a mishap with some teasing, why make a big deal out of it?

however, instead of feeling bothered, he almost feels charmed. 

"no, no! that's not what i- oh, wing! you're pulling my leg here." you softly punch him in the shoulder, getting a weak wince of pain. nothing serious of course, mere child's play. "i was trying to compliment you-- but it came out super duper wrong- and i... ugh. sorry. it sounds lame, i know."

wing rubs the area that you "injured" him, just to add to the flair. "it's okay, really. don't beat yourself over it."

"you're right..” you hum. "it's just been a long day- oh! right! my friends are doing alright, it's not like a rave in there. last time i checked, some inphernals were sober to look after the house."

"and if they're not?"

"well.... i'll be there." you rub the back of your head, awkwardly defending yourself. wing didn't want to pry, but parties are no joke. the crossroads is a busy hub, and even busier at night. especially if boombox was invited, oh no. 

"b-but after i sit down. that reminds me- i came out here to rest but i ran into you, haha!"

he hums, your reaction gets more and more sensitive as time goes on. you didn't seem like such a nervous wreck prior, could it really be the fatigue? he couldn't have you passing out on the ground. wing may be a dashing liar, but he has empathy. 

"then forgive me for making you stand for..." he pauses, and then thinks for a moment. the warmth on his face is dimmer now, and that's his cue for how long it's been. "nearly twenty minutes. here, i'll sit with you."

"—wwhhhatt!! nono, it's okay! you don't need to--"

but before another anxious-ridden reply, wing drags you to a bench nearby. so convenient.

** 

the breeze feels welcoming to the both of you. the afternoon drifting into evening, and the sun sleeping away.

it feels perfect. hanging out late with a familiar, with another warm body. some may say it brings comfort, reliability, and safety. and it's true, wing admits. while crossroads isn't a dangerous central hub, it still gets scary at night. or well, maybe that's just everywhere, he thinks. 

however, instead of being comfortable, wing felt rather—uncomfortable.

sitting next to you had this unnerving tension, more than before. at first, the tension was one sided from wing and even then...it was mostly just uncertainty. but now, the anticipation made his mouth dry with questions.

why were you suddenly averting gazes and sitting further than expected? why did it seem like you were avoiding him? was it really that embarrassing for him to stay with you? it's getting dark! staying with a stranger who's alone at night isn't weird! 

swallowing his pride and what he thinks (no, knows) is the just thing to do, he turns to you and pats your shoulder. you twitch as he opens his mouth to speak. 

"...are you okay? i mean, to go back to your party. you look out of it." nice save.

he felt your nervous laughter rise in your throat, only to be cut short by a brief pause. a caesura. 

"i'm okay, no really. it's just," you bite your lip, unsure of how to clarify. "how do i say this..." 

"well, let's backtrack. what are you trying to sa--" 

"—i've lied to you, wing."

his heart nearly stops, and his head perks up to see you. no, to see you. 

he didn't expect you to give up and reveal your intentions so quickly. could it be guilt? for lying to a person you barely knew? it's a possibility, maybe you have really high morale. some inphernals break with little to no pressure, and maybe the kind gesture from him made a crack. something like, 'wow! this guy is actually nice and kind. i feel bad for lying to him because i know everything about him!' 

though... that's a bit far fetched. so instead, he gulps and steadies his breathing. 

"...uh. what do you mean?" is all he says.

you turn to face him, your gaze finally meeting his lashes. and you feel bothered, so bothered. the anxiety growing in your chest is giving out, and the vowels out of your mouth come undone.

huffing a breath, "i... i didn't come out here for fresh air. or well, i did-- but that's not the only reason."

wing nods slowly, not out of agreement, but more so confusion. he can't ever get a good impression on you, and this is making it worse. "okay.. then why?"

"i came-- i came out here to try and find you. i just got lucky and saw you as soon as i walked out the door." 

try and find him? why? 

so many questions, and not enough mouth movement to say them all. if he tried to, it'd look like he vomited sounds and that's embarrassing. 

but why him? he's not a horrible liar. not even a bad liar. could it be the tips for banhammer? did he send in someone to find out who was giving the intel? oh, that'd be bad. he doesn't want too much attention on him.

"you needed to find me? for what?" he asks briefly. he says it quicker than expected, but his body is urging for your confession. he wants to know. his curiosity of the past few weeks-- the nagging ring in his ear, he wants it to stop. and this conversation could make it happen. 

"because i wanted to..." here it is, the money shot! the showstopper, the great value of information, it's— 

"i wanted to apologize to you." 

what?

"huh?"

your smile is apparent, and you fidget with the ends of your shirt. "yeah, i wanted to say sorry for being really obnoxious when we first met. i shouldn't have been in your face like that... not cool of me."

"oh... no, i..." his lips are slightly parted, and he doesn't know what to say. for once, his head is empty and he's speechless. 

"i was trying to... haha, get to know you. i wanted to try and be friends with you since, y'know. i thought you were kinda pretty. b-but not in a weird way, you looked... ah... approachable!" 

pre...

pretty!!? 

"what--" his hand flies to his mouth, covering it. your abrupt compliment wasn't something he could predict, and his words are faster than his mind. wing could understand the apology. you were invasive, that's no joke. and it's not like he hasn't been described as inviting before either. in fact, he aims to be called that. practically expects it at this point.  

but you thinking he's simply pretty after all the (one sided) drama is-- is absurd!

wing isn't a complete loser when it comes to friendship, but he still finds it surprising. 'course, he'd never befriend a stranger on the spot. he's had his fair share of hangouts for "work", and a few laughs here and there... but could any of that be classified as true familiarity?

he thinks an outgoing person would disagree, saying it's not genuine and heartfelt. but when did wing and the word genuine go together? he knows that his natural talent (or more like a talent that wouldn't go away) could drive away any possible friends. who wants someone who could lie to you and speak it as truth? or, what wing thinks is worse, who wants to see him bare? vulnerable, nothing to hide behind. a raw image of his true self. 

"yeah, i was trying to ask about what you liked and all-- but i thought about it, and i realized how rude i was. i had to say sorry or else you'd hate me forever." you giggle, eyes darting to the floor. out of shame, discomfort? wing couldn't tell right now. 

but yes, it was rude. it was so, so rude. so incredibly rude, that it had him thinking about you for weeks! days, hours of him ignoring the thought of you. through countless interviews, a flashback to your head-strong attitude would appear. would you answer like this, would you push past him and pry, would you be okay with his face— stripped of its protective fiction? 

...why was he so fixated on what could happen with you?

come to think of it, in the back of his mind, it was always you. he hates to utter it, but you're like a leech in his brain. unmoving, incapable of being moved. as if he enjoyed the thought of you, and never wanted the memory of you to end.

"i get it if you don't wanna hangout after this. i'm not hurt or anything, and i'm not mad at y--"

"—no, no, that- that's okay." 

you blink, your words frozen with nerves. 

"it's fine. i..." 

he knows he should pull away. agree with you and walk off into the distance. to interview, collect intel, lie, pry, and do it all again. 

there's no way someone out there would want to get to know the real winged magical staff. sure, he can say that he's a lesser evil and keeping criminals out of sight, but those lies pile up. sooner or later, he'll step on his own toes and see nobody alongside him. joking, passing drinks, going out to eat, all of that would be gone.

yet he can't help but rekindle the faith he had long ago. the hope that company would invite him, not scare him. wing wants to hide away, run away from it all, but with you... 

he wants to try, just this time.

"i think hanging out with you is fun. you were... pushy at first, but i got a hunch that it wasn't intentional. you seemed genuinely interested in getting to know me." 

your arms feel heavy, and you couldn't believe what you were hearing. after days of bracing yourself for clear rejection, you feel shocked. a relief of sorts, yes, but shock nonetheless. 

"wait.. really? you don't have to lie to me--"

"—i'm not lying." he feels his tongue click. a sentence that was said too fast, too quick, and one that could give him away. all his hard work, all the cover-ups for any suspicion, and he's risking it all for you. a stupid, stupid inphernal like you. "i mean it."

"...oh. oh. okay. okay.. okay.....okay! well, if you really do," you practically spring back to life, like a fish back in water. your eyes light up, brighter than the slow sunset behind you, and it's radiant with energy. "i-i think you're fun to hang around with too! we can hangout whenever, i don't want you to feel pressured or anythin—"

he sighs, "it's alright, really. you don't need to worry." how many times has he said that now? wing should be a therapist by now.

"for real? oh. i mean-- yeah, pshh, of course. i, uh, are you free this..."

just before you could finish that sentence, your phone rings. 

apologizing profusely, you pick up and out came a ruckus of sounds. an angry voice that's almost incomprehensible due to loud music. it sounds like the typical soundtrack on a radio.

you whine, and your eyes kept switching to the other line and to him. wing could only grin, and leaned away from your warmth. he didn't know when the two of you got so close. 

"gotta go?" he says, almost like a whisper. but a giddy whisper. 

"yeah, i'll be right there. i'm sorry for leaving, i thought you guys got my text-- i do have to go.. sorry wing-- okay, hold on!" you get up from your seat, brushing off your pants and looking off into the distance. the direction to where the party is, he assumes. 

"don't apologize. i've been keeping you away from your party."

"wish you could've kept me away longer." you wink at him, only to get berated in your ear about drunk nonsense. something about... an inphernal stealing a house painting? 

"...huh?"

"okay, ireallygottagonow, i'll see you next weekend, yeah??!" you give him one last look, a longing gaze, and then run off. almost tripping on the way, but off you went. scurrying off like you were late to a courthouse. 

wing blanks out, and he's left unattended on a park bench. stranded, stripped away from a friend.

his new friend, to be exact.

a/n : can you tell the banner was made before i had wing's colors lmfao. thats hwo long it took to wrote this bruh ^^ i made that banner btw!! i got started on this fic in march and. barely finished it now. prob means i wont make a part 2 bc thats How Long it Took me but i'll see how things go also ive never wrote for phighting nor am i a mega fanatic for phighting ... i played it like five times ... so forgive me if some stuff is inaccurate

[bcacstuff]

Interview with Sam.

Description

Outlander’s Sam Heughan, heads to Perth next weekend for Supernova 2025. The Scottish star chatted to the guys about his excitable fans, whiskey tastings and the Aussie heat.

Clairsy and Lisa congratulated Sam on his upcoming role in the Royal Shakespeare Company’s as Macbeth and no pressure but Ian McKellan was the previous actor in the role.

Transcript

(*Speaker 3 is Sam)

Speaker 1: A whole lot of stars are about to descend upon us for Super and Over comic con and gaming on at the Perth Convention and Exhibition Center next weekend, Dune twenty and twenty nine. Tickets are available through Supernova dot com dot AU. One of the big stars coming to town from Outlander, among other things, is Sam Hewan. He's with us this morning.

Speaker 2: Hello, Hey, welcome Sam.

Speaker 3: Good morning to you both. What a lovely, lovely day.

Speaker 2: Well, I said we.

Speaker 1: Could not off for your thirty five degrees and you said to you, this is summer.

Speaker 3: Yeah. When I when I landed in Sydney a couple of days ago, and my driver, I was wearing a T shirt and he's like, you need to put a jacket on this. This is summer for a Scotsman. It's beautiful. I love your mornings here. They're fresh, they are fresh.

Speaker 2: Well, it's gonna beautiful in Perth by the next week. You might get a twenty degree day, but plenty of son.

Speaker 3: I'll bring the buddy smigglers.

Speaker 1: Yes, you have you done many of these events?

Speaker 3: This Super and Over is that first time at this convention I've done one before. I had such a great time last year in Sydney, in and Melbourne. It was really great. But yeah, I've never been to first so I'm excited to go there.

Speaker 2: Oh, very good. But what are the fans like? Are the rabbit or respectful or a bit of both?

Speaker 3: Honestly? I just I'm so happy that we finally come down under, you know, we do you know a bunch of these events all around the world, especially in America. To come to Australia and New Zealand as well, I'm always fun to come down here and the fans, you guys are amazing. You know, you're You're very welcoming.

Speaker 1: Obviously, people probably know you best as Jamie Fraser and Outlander. The eighth and final season will be out soon. It's been an incredible journey for both the cast and characters. Do you think fans are going to be happy with how it all wraps up?

Speaker 3: Oh? That would be telling, wouldn't it. Honestly? How do you how do you how do you finish? You know, something that's been going on for eleven years and seasons? It is. It's been an amazing journey with Jamie Fraser and all of the you know, the the actors and the characters. But yeah, I mean it's going to be heart ranging for sure to say goodbye, but worth it. And there's a lot to look forward to as well. There's the the prequel show that airs.

Speaker 2: Blood of My Blood looking forward to that might after following the show all the way. So I love it Atlanda and you know the time travel element with Claire going from forty five to seventeen forty three with a totally different set of conflicts going on, and she's like sharing the uber red Uberta. But if you could travel to any time or era, what would you choose? If you got a spot in the history that you'd love to go to or maybe the future.

Speaker 3: Yeah, I mean I've been asked this question over the years, and you know what, I've never really come up with the perfect answer because there's you know, so many periods of history that I'd love to go back to, where there's you know, the ancient Egyptians seeing how they built pyramids, back to you know, the dawn of civilization. But perhaps I would go back to when when I first started outlanding, just like I don't know, sneak up beside myself and say, hey, you're going to have such a bloss on this nice.

Speaker 1: Yeah, Now tell us about the other thing that you're doing with fans, a whiskey tasting experience. Trust a Scotsman to have.

Speaker 3: A wors I mean, you know, I know there may be whiskey involved, who knows. But no, I have a spirits company says like spirits we are you know on the press office? Should I say of bringing our alcohol to Australia which will be really exciting. But yeah, I have also a cocktail book coming out this year, so yeah, I might talk a little bit about making cocktails. I actually tried a Tasmanian whiskey last.

Speaker 1: Night, which was well, of course it would be you know, I mean that's research, isn't it.

Speaker 3: That's research, very thoroughly. Research would be remissive.

Speaker 2: You not really any cost of or a text break, you know you're going to put that in.

Speaker 3: Yes, my account, I'm very happy with you.

Speaker 2: Well, you've got to be very happy with the Royal Shakespeare Company, Thank you very much.

Speaker 3: Macbeth. Are you feeling say it.

Speaker 1: That's Scottish flight? Oh no, actually we're not in that. We can say it outside the theater.

Speaker 3: Yeah, I think you're you're you're okay, there's I mean, yeah, there are a.

Speaker 2: Lot of worry about yeah, yeah, well.

Speaker 3: Yeah, no, the headsages. I've got this shocking haircut. Actually I shaved my head for it. We were doing some press for it. We've shot, you know, our promo material and we haven't started rehearsals yet. But I'm really excited. It's sort of full circle moment for me because I started in theater some twenty plus years ago,��so it will be great to return back to them.

Speaker 1: I imagine that. I mean, you know Macbeth with the Royal Shakespeare Company. To me, it does It doesn't sound like it gets any bigger than that for a stage performance. It just is doing movies and The Outlander and all of that. Is that so that you can do things like this, do you know what I mean?

Speaker 3: Yeah, I definitely. It's a very different muscle and it's a different world. But as I said, it's where I started, and it just feels like the right thing to do now. But there's no pressure because the last people to play and Lady Macbeth in the theater that we're doing it in Stratford upon Even was Ian mckellnon and Judy Dench, so there's.

Speaker 2: No novices, no pressure no pressure at all, no pressure at all for you know, so Laurence Olivia nominated in the past. Man, you'll be it'll be walking back.

Speaker 3: Thank you so much. You've done your research. But yeah, no, I mean as I said, it was. You know, I grew up in theater and before I got Outlander, and I worked a lot in the UK, in London's West End or in Scotland doing theater. But it has been fifteen years since I've been on. I've treaded the boards, so it'll be certainly the first night might be nerve wracking.

Speaker 1: It'll be like riding a bike now, Sam. We love to ask people where they were when they got the call to tell them they got the role. Do you remember where you were, like we were, you know, at the shops picking out some fruit or something when you got the call that you got Outlander or yeah.

Speaker 3: I'm not sure it was fruit that I was picking out, but I was. I was in a grocery story. Why are you Really in Love? Yeah? Yeah, and my agent called and I was. I remember just dropping the shopping that i'd been gathered, which was very was not very good of me, but I just I walked straight out and I think they walked straight to the pub around the corner because my friends were just by chance, and we certainly celebrated that that night. And yeah, it was incredible. It was a real moment because you know, I was working in bars and restaurants and obviously a jobbing actor, but it really did change my life.

Speaker 2: Oh you've got to be prepared when you come to Perth. There's a big Scottish community here, so you might get mobbed at supern Ivor. Because I never done the Reid Brothers from your proclaimers, can they get mobbed as well?

Speaker 3: So you never die as well. I hope they'll be singing a rendition of a one hundred miles then when I arrived. But no, I mean that's great. I mean there's always there's this great Scottish connection down down here, and it's been really interesting to see that. You know, when we did many kilts over New Zealand, you know, seeing the connection there to Scotland is great. So it does it. You guys have got perhaps a warmer landscape than we do. But just feel like coming home a little bit.

Speaker 1: Well, we look forward to bring in town. We hope you have a wonderful time this weekend in Sydney and then we'll see you in Perth next week.

Speaker 3: Ken looking forward to it and looking forward to seeing everyone. Honestly, it's going to be such a good weekend.

Speaker 1: Thank you so much. Sam.

Speaker 2: You take take care. He's gonna have some big cues in front of him like the other stars. I went last year?

Speaker 3: Did you last year?

Speaker 2: Man? My son? You wanted a couple of autographs and things and photos and E met old mate from Wolf Creek.

Speaker 1: He is there again.

Speaker 2: He loves John Charity is Clay some great lines for us.

[axmxz]

You're shaming people for not reading the study and relying on summaries, but you neglect to mention the fact that it's 206 pages long.

Gee, I wonder why more people haven't read a 206-page study packed with encephallographic tables that mean nothing to the layman?..

So here's the abstract and the conclusion. Judge for yourselves what the study says.

Abstract

With today's wide adoption of LLM products like ChatGPT from OpenAI, humans and businesses engage and use LLMs on a daily basis. Like any other tool, it carries its own set of advantages and limitations. This study focuses on finding out the cognitive cost of using an LLM in the educational context of writing an essay.

We assigned participants to three groups: LLM group, Search Engine group, Brain-only group, where each participant used a designated tool (or no tool in the latter) to write an essay. We conducted 3 sessions with the same group assignment for each participant. In the 4th session we asked LLM group participants to use no tools (we refer to them as LLM-to-Brain), and the Brain-only group participants were asked to use LLM (Brain-to-LLM). We recruited a total of 54 participants for Sessions 1, 2, 3, and 18 participants among them completed session 4.

We used electroencephalography (EEG) to record participants' brain activity in order to assess their cognitive engagement and cognitive load, and to gain a deeper understanding of neural activations during the essay writing task. We performed NLP analysis, and we interviewed each participant after each session. We performed scoring with the help from the human teachers and an AI judge (a specially built AI agent).

We discovered a consistent homogeneity across the Named Entities Recognition (NERs), n-grams, ontology of topics within each group. EEG analysis presented robust evidence that LLM, Search Engine and Brain-only groups had significantly different neural connectivity patterns, reflecting divergent cognitive strategies. Brain connectivity systematically scaled down with the amount of external support: the Brain‑only group exhibited the strongest, widest‑ranging networks, Search Engine group showed intermediate engagement, and LLM assistance elicited the weakest overall coupling.

In session 4, LLM-to-Brain participants showed weaker neural connectivity and under-engagement of alpha and beta networks; and the Brain-to-LLM participants demonstrated higher memory recall, and re‑engagement of widespread occipito-parietal and prefrontal nodes, likely supporting the visual processing, similar to the one frequently perceived in the Search Engine group.

The reported ownership of LLM group's essays in the interviews was low. The Search Engine group had strong ownership, but lesser than the Brain-only group. The LLM group also fell behind in their ability to quote from the essays they wrote just minutes prior.

As the educational impact of LLM use only begins to settle with the general population, in this study we demonstrate the pressing matter of a likely decrease in learning skills based on the results of our study. The use of LLM had a measurable impact on participants, and while the benefits were initially apparent, as we demonstrated over the course of 4 months, the LLM group's participants performed worse than their counterparts in the Brain-only group at all levels: neural, linguistic, scoring."

Conclusion:

"As we stand at this technological crossroads, it becomes crucial to understand the full spectrum of cognitive consequences associated with LLM integration in educational and informational contexts. While these tools offer unprecedented opportunities for enhancing learning and information access, their potential impact on cognitive development, critical thinking, and intellectual independence demands a very careful consideration and continued research.

The LLM undeniably reduced the friction involved in answering participants' questions compared to the Search Engine. However, this convenience came at a cognitive cost, diminishing users' inclination to critically evaluate the LLM's output or ”opinions” (probabilistic answers based on the training datasets). This highlights a concerning evolution of the 'echo chamber' effect: rather than disappearing, it has adapted to shape user exposure through algorithmically curated content. What is ranked as “top” is ultimately influenced by the priorities of the LLM's shareholders [123, 125].

Only a few participants in the interviews mentioned that they did not follow the “thinking” aspect of the LLMs and pursued their line of ideation and thinking.

Regarding ethical considerations, participants who were in the Brain-only group reported higher satisfaction and demonstrated higher brain connectivity, compared to other groups. Essays written with the help of LLM carried a lesser significance or value to the participants (impaired ownership, Figure 8), as they spent less time on writing (Figure 33), and mostly failed to provide a quote from their essays (Session 1, Figure 6, Figure 7).

Human teachers “closed the loop” by detecting the LLM-generated essays, as they recognized the conventional structure and homogeneity of the delivered points for each essay within the topic and group.

We believe that the longitudinal studies are needed in order to understand the long-term impact of the LLMs on the human brain, before LLMs are recognized as something that is net positive for the humans."

(bolding and scaling mine)

Link to study.

So, I wouldn't say the study authors are "cautiously neutral to slightly positive on AI as a whole", as OP claims. I would say they detected quantifiable degradation in cognitive processes for those participants who used LLMs to produce essays.

LLM-users showed

a) degraded neural networking

b) no ownership of produced content

c) no critical evaluation of what LLM presented to them as fact

d) little to no recall of what was in the essay, even right after "writing" it

I.e., LLM-users did the OPPOSITE of learning.

The "benefits" of LLM? Fast answers.

The costs? All of the above.

And the fact that you are white-knighting LLMs while distorting the results of the study to people who only read journalist summaries, while shaming them for not plowing through 206 pages of data tables and scientific jargon, is a Soviet parade's worth of red flags.

Seeing a thousand "fork found in kitchen" and "believe scientists" and "we all knew about AI" tags on a post with an AI incorrectly summarizing a preprint study advising thoughtful use of AI as "AI is making your brain weak and ineffective" was making me crazy i'm sorry i tried not reblogging it like four times and every time i didn't reblog it it had like an order of magnitude more notes

[big-ooof]

boxer!Sunghoon x journalist!reader

You always hated boxing. The way fists collided with bone, the sharp exhale before a glove landed, the smell of sweat and blood like stale metal in a too-small room. It all felt like unnecessary violence masquerading as discipline. You avoided the sport entirely. Until now.

“Don’t roll your eyes,” your editor said, tossing the assignment folder onto your desk like it weighed nothing. “You wanted more long-form work, right? There it is. Local kid on the rise. Amateur boxing champion. Big regional title match coming up in a few weeks. He’s media shy, but he said yes to one exclusive.”

You opened the folder. And the name punched you harder than any glove ever could. Park Sunghoon.

You hadn’t said his name out loud in years. Not since the summer after senior year— after the two of you drove to the edge of the city in his dad’s secondhand car and parked under a bridge neither of you had ever been to. It was the kind of night that had felt like a question mark. You didn’t even fight. He just said, “I don’t think I’m meant to stay here,” and you said, “I don’t think I’m brave enough to leave.”

That was it. No grand ending. Just separate paths. Now he was back on yours.

You walked into the boxing gym with a notepad, a recorder, and a creeping sense of unreality. It wasn’t fancy. The air hung heavy, humid with breath and grit. The ring in the center sagged slightly in the middle like it had seen too many rounds. Trainers barked. Ropes thudded. The sound of bodies being molded.

And then, “Y/N?”

You turned. He looked different. Older, sharper. Shoulders broader, jaw squared. But the eyes? Same. Maybe more tired. More knowing. But still him. Still Sunghoon.

“I didn’t know it was you they were sending,” he said, pulling off his gloves. “You hate this stuff.”

You shrugged, flipping open your notepad like armor. “Guess I hate my career stagnating more.”

He laughed a short, amused sound and tossed his gloves onto a bench.

“So,” you asked, hoping your voice didn’t betray the tremor in your chest, “why boxing?”

His eyes met yours. “I didn’t know how else to fight for something real.”

You spent the next week shadowing him. He didn’t pose for photos. Didn’t like scripted answers. But when you asked about the first time he stepped into a ring, his entire body softened, like memory sat in his muscles.

He told you about the first punch he took. The first time he won by decision. The way he trained before sunrise because it made him feel ahead of his demons.

“It’s not about hurting someone else,” he said one morning, sweat beading down his temple. “It’s about proving I’m not the kind of guy who gives up.”

You wrote that down. But it stayed in your chest long after your pen stopped moving.

One night, after his last training session, you lingered in the parking lot. He walked out with his duffel slung over one shoulder, nodding at you with a faint smile. “Still writing?”

You shook your head. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“How weird it is to come back to someone after so long. To find them… changed, but also not.”

He paused, his breath clouding in the night air. “You mean me?”

“I mean both of us.”

A long silence stretched between you. Then he stepped closer, voice lower now. “I still think about that night. The bridge. What I said.”

You swallowed hard. “I do too.”

And then, he said something that lodged itself deep into the cracks you’d tried to fill with deadlines and detachment: “I never stopped hoping we’d meet again. I just didn’t think it’d be with you holding a recorder.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Guess I’m the underdog in this story too.”

He laughed. And this time it was real, warm, almost like it used to be.

Originally, the assignment was supposed to be three interviews and a background profile. But you were still showing up. Not just because your editor extended the story pitch into a feature, but because there was something in the quiet between you and Sunghoon that felt... unfinished. Unspoken. Like he had become a question you wanted to answer all over again.

“You walk in like you’re not scared, but I can tell you hate it here.”

You looked up from your notes. Sunghoon stood across the ring from you, shirt clinging to him, wrapped hands dangling against his thighs.

You raised a brow. “Are we psychoanalyzing now?”

He smirked. “Just saying. You never liked loud places. Or watching people hurt.”

“I don’t think this is about hurting people.”

“No?” He stepped through the ropes and sat on the apron. “Then why flinch every time someone hits the mat?”

You shut your notebook. “Because I don’t like pain being entertainment.”

He watched you carefully, the way he always used to. Not to pick you apart. Just to understand you. “That’s not why I do it.”

“I know.”

Another beat passed. You could hear the sound of rope whipping against shoes behind you, a coach shouting a three-count. You sighed.

“Why me, Sunghoon? Why’d you agree to the article?”

His mouth tugged into something between a smile and a wince. “Because I trust you.”

You blinked.

“I haven’t trusted a lot of people,” he said, quieter now. “But you? Even when we were kids... you never needed me to be anything I wasn’t.”

You swallowed the warmth climbing your chest. “You left, though.”

“You told me you weren’t brave enough to leave.”

“Doesn’t mean I wanted you to go.”

Later that week, you sat ringside as he sparred with a taller, faster opponent. Sunghoon was getting tagged more than usual— his shoulders stiff, timing just a fraction off. His coach called for a break.

“What’s going on with you?” you asked as he spat into a cup.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, wiping his face. “Can’t get out of my own head.”

You hesitated. “Can I try something?”

He looked at you warily. “If it involves yoga or manifestation, I’m out.”

You snorted. “No. Just... switch to southpaw.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Your right side’s tight today. You’re leading too much with it. Go southpaw. Force your brain to adjust.”

He stared for a second, then gave a short nod. When he re-entered the ring, his whole rhythm shifted. Awkward at first, but then, something unlocked. His footwork changed. His jabs found space. He won the round.

When he stepped out, he tossed you a towel. “So you’ve been watching my videos behind my back?”

You grinned. “Maybe.”

That night, you both ended up at a 24-hour diner just off the freeway, a place that hadn’t updated its menu since the '90s and didn’t plan to. You sat across from each other in a cracked vinyl booth, nursing coffees and pancakes you didn’t touch.

Sunghoon picked at a corner of his plate. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded.

“Why didn’t you stop me that night? When I said I was leaving.”

You looked out the window. The neon from the open sign flickered across the windshield of his car. “Because I thought you were already gone,” you said. “Even before you left.”

He didn’t respond for a long time. Then: “I was scared, Y/N.” You turned back to him. “I didn’t know how to be who I wanted to be in the same town I used to be no one.”

“That’s what I’m writing about,” you said softly. “That’s what people need to know. Not just your stats. Your story.”

His eyes searched yours. “Even the part where I walked away from the girl I loved?”

You couldn’t breathe for a second. “Even that part,” you whispered.

When he dropped you off, you didn’t move right away. Your hand lingered on the door handle, the air between you charged with something too delicate to name.

“You always smelled like old books,” he said suddenly, like a memory slipping out.

You smiled. “You always smelled like gym socks and breath mints.”

He laughed quietly, but his hand brushed yours. “I’m not leaving this time,” he said.

“I’m not running either.”

And with that, he let go.

The press conference was held in a strip mall gym with a makeshift backdrop and a lot of fake confidence.

Sunghoon wasn’t a talker. Everyone knew that. His reputation was clean but distant: disciplined, sharp, low profile. So when the promotion team pushed a mic in his face and asked him to sell the fight, you watched him withdraw by the second.

His opponent, some golden-boy loudmouth named Baek Juno, leaned into the cameras like he was born in front of them.

“He’s got heart,” Juno said, voice syrupy with condescension. “But heart won’t save you from a left hook.”

A few reporters chuckled. Juno turned to Sunghoon.

“You gonna say anything, man? Or you just gonna let your girlfriend do the talking?”

The room buzzed. Cameras clicked. You felt every eye swing toward you, seated quietly in the corner with your recorder in your lap.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. But his jaw tensed. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to defend you. It was to shut everything down. “You’ll hear me loud enough when the bell rings.”

No one laughed. Juno’s grin cracked slightly.

After the conference, you caught up with him in the back lot, just as he was changing out of his team hoodie. You tossed your voice at him like a challenge. “Girlfriend?”

He rubbed a towel over his hair. “Yeah, I didn’t love that either.”

You crossed your arms. “You didn’t deny it.”

He looked up at you, something sharp and unreadable in his eyes. “Did you want me to?”

The air between you thinned. Words crowded your throat.

“I didn’t come back here for this,” you said finally, softly.

“I didn’t think you’d come back at all.”

You swallowed. “This isn’t back. This is passing through.”

“Feels like more than that.”

He stepped forward, closer than he had in years. And for a second, you weren’t a journalist and he wasn’t a fighter. You were two teenagers in a beat-up Honda under a bridge again, too afraid to say what you really meant.

You broke the moment first. “You’ve got three weeks till the fight. Don’t get distracted.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Then stop distracting me.”

He showed up at your apartment the next Friday. After midnight. Hoodie pulled up, knuckles bruised, silence in his eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Can I come in?”

You didn’t hesitate to let him in.

You sat on the floor, legs crossed, two mugs of chamomile between you. It was quiet, almost too quiet. You watched him stare out your window, like he was still in the ring. Like the adrenaline never really left.

“I don’t know how to talk about this part,” he said finally. “The part after everyone goes home. The part that doesn’t get written about.”

You waited.

“It’s lonely,” he admitted. “Winning. Fighting. Everyone cheers and then they disappear. You’re left with nothing but the echo.”

You reached out, slowly, and covered his hand with yours.

“I see you,” you said. “Even when the crowd’s gone.”

He turned to you. Really looked at you.

“Do you think if I hadn’t left, we’d still be us?”

You exhaled. “I think... we’d be different versions of who we are now. Maybe worse. Maybe better.”

He nodded. “I still think about kissing you.”

That one hit below the ribs. “Then why don’t you?”

Silence. Breath. Then… He leaned forward and kissed you like he remembered every inch of your mouth. Like he’d imagined this moment a thousand different ways, but none as real as this.

And you kissed him back like you’d been waiting for him to come home— not to a place, but to you.

When he left that night, he didn’t say goodbye. Just touched your cheek, nodded, and walked away like he knew the fight ahead of him now wasn’t just in the ring, but in the parts of him still afraid to hold something good.

There’s a rhythm to training when a fight is close: everything narrows. Less talking. Fewer distractions. Tunnel vision. You watched it happen to Sunghoon over the next two weeks.

He showed up early, stayed late, iced his knuckles until they went numb. When he hit the pads, you could hear the ghosts leaving his body, one punch at a time.

But outside the gym? He barely touched his phone. Barely touched you.

You weren’t sure what the kiss meant. It had cracked something open, something real, but you didn’t know if it was a beginning or a goodbye.

You were still writing the article. Still staying professional. But every night, when you lay in bed with your laptop humming beside you and the silence pressing in, you wondered if he'd kiss you again. If he even remembered how soft your voice had gone when you told him, I see you.

You wondered if you were being naive, hoping for both the fight and the boy.

The day before the match, he asked you to meet him at the old park near your high school.

You found him at the edge of the basketball court, where the chain nets hung loose and the lines were faded. He was sitting on the curb, hood up, thumb brushing the edge of his mouth like he was trying to work something loose from his soul.

“I thought I could do this without feeling anything,” he said as you sat beside him. “But it’s not working.”

You didn’t speak. Just waited.

He finally looked at you. “This fight matters more than I wanted it to. Not because of the title. Not because of the promotion deal waiting after. But because I know you’ll be there.”

You blinked. “Sunghoon—”

“I need you to know something before I step in that ring.”

His voice was hoarse now. No swagger. No shield.

“When I left all those years ago, I kept telling myself you deserved better than someone like me. Someone who’d rather bleed for approval than stay and build a life.”

“And now?”

He looked at you. Really looked. “Now I think I bled just to earn my way back to you.”

You didn’t sleep that night. Neither did he.

You texted once, just after 2:00 AM: I’ll be there. No matter how it ends.

He didn’t reply. But a heart popped up on your screen a few minutes later. It was enough.

You stood in the back corridor of the venue on fight day, your press badge swinging against your chest. The lights inside the arena pulsed red and white. Baek Juno’s fans were loud, loud enough to feel like a tide trying to swallow the floor.

But when Sunghoon stepped into the hallway, robed in black, gloves already on, everything went quiet in your chest. He paused when he saw you. Eyes locked. Then— He nodded once. You nodded back. That was it. But it meant everything.

Round One was brutal. Juno came out fast. Showboating. Talking between shots. His jab was tight, sharp. Sunghoon took the first few hits like stone. Didn’t flinch. But you could see the frustration in his stance, too tense. Too controlled.

“He’s in his head,” someone muttered beside you at ringside.

You held your breath.

Round Two. Sunghoon adjusted. Slipped more. Countered with his left. A cut opened under Juno’s eye. The crowd changed its tune. You could feel it, Sunghoon shifting. Becoming something alive.

Round Three. Round Four. Round Five.

It wasn’t about flash anymore. It was about grit. Every exchange told a story. Every punch from Sunghoon said, I’m still here. Every step forward said, I don’t quit.

Round Six. Final round. He looked out into the crowd, just for a second. His eyes found you.

And you mouthed: Fight for yourself.

He nodded. And then he did. Final bell. Decision pending. The ref raised Sunghoon’s hand. The crowd erupted. You didn’t scream. You didn’t cheer. You just cried.

The locker room after a fight is a strange place. It smells like sweat, antiseptic, and adrenaline that hasn’t left the building. It hums with the low murmur of trainers packing gear and voices trying to stay calm while the body remembers what it just survived.

You walked in slowly, press pass tucked away.

Sunghoon was sitting on the bench with his hoodie half-zipped, a towel around his neck, and his hands still wrapped. You were sure a bruise was blooming across his ribs and could see dried blood near his temple.

He looked up the moment you crossed the threshold. Neither of you spoke.

You just knelt in front of him, fingers trembling as you reached for his gloves. He let you unlace them. Let you unwrap the tape, slow and careful.

“It hurts,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“Not the fight. I mean… the after.”

You nodded. “The silence is always the worst.” You looked up. His eyes were glassy.

“I’ve been running on rage for so long,” he said. “But that’s not what got me through tonight.”

“What was it then?”

“You.”

You froze.

“I kept thinking about how you used to read in the back row of chemistry class, even though you weren’t supposed to bring novels. You’d underline things in pencil like someone might come take the words away.”

You smiled softly. “They were the only things I got to keep.”

Sunghoon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, forehead nearly against yours.

“I lost you once because I thought I wasn’t enough,” he whispered. “I won’t let that be the reason again.”

You felt it then… that ache in your chest cracking open like spring breaking through frost.

“But I’m not the same girl you left,” you said. “I’m harder now. A little more selfish. A little more scared.”

“I’m not the same either,” he said. “But maybe that’s why it could work this time.”

Your voice broke when you asked it. “Do you want me to stay?”

He didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

Just one word. But it held every unspoken apology. Every buried kiss. Every look he never dared to hold for too long.

“Yes,” he said again, softer. “Not just tonight. Not just until the story prints. I want you to stay in the parts of my life no one claps for.”

You closed your eyes. And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t desperate or rushed. It was reminiscent of the love you two had as teenager, you two are just older now, making the decision to stay.

Two months later, the article went live and blew up bigger than you expected. People called it “a love letter disguised as a profile.” Some even asked if it was fiction. You never confirmed or denied.

Sunghoon went pro. Started training younger fighters. His record wasn’t spotless, but his focus was.

And you? You stayed. Not because you had to. Not because he asked. But because when you looked at him now— laughing, alive, arms around your waist in the morning light.

You didn’t see the fighter or the past. You saw someone who fought his way back to himself. And you were proud to have been in his corner. Always.

[mysecret02]

Hello lovelies!

Bruce forgot to send the adoption papers.

So it takes place after Damian had been in Gotham for a little bit and Jason has been officially brought back.

Damian's appearance really makes the headlines and everybody is trying to figure out when was he "made".

At one of the charity galas a reporter is making an interview with the Wayne kids and asks:

"So Richard, a lot of the readers are curious looking at the ages here: Damian has been born not long after you have became the ward of our favourite billionaire Brucie Wayne, I must ask: Have you not been adopted because Bruce has already known he had a hier at the time? If so why did Jason become adopted? Could you answer the questions please?"

And Bruce is standing behind them with an utterly confused expression, than thinking and surprised Pikachu face.

The other kids didn't even know Dick wasn't adopted. Jason starts to cry to take away the attention from Dick and calls the interviewer cruel. Damian is only being held back by Cass so he doesn't kill the guy. Duke questions why would he say such things about his big bro. The others have different types of exasperated expression on. Dick is red faced and tries to play it down.

Bruce calls Alfred and gets everyone in the car ASAP. He is being yelled at and questioned all the way to the manor. He wanted to adopt Dick on his 10th birthday. He made a nice photo album about the Graysons and put the adoption papers in an envelope written "Happy birthday chum!" on it. There was an electrical fire in his old office where he hid his present and everything that was in it had been put up in the attic but then there was that Arkham breakout and issues with the roof and he argued with Dick because "YOU ARE NOT MY REAL DAD" and the boxes are not even in the attic and he only wanted to tell his lawyers after Dick said yes. God he forgot to even send the draft! Where are those pesky little boxes?

B: ALFRED! Where are the boxes?

A: If I may ask what kind of boxes?

B: The ones with the things from the, the things from . You know there was that electrical fire and...

Alfred gets the boxes while the kids all try to save the situation and invite Dick to family night, even Jason says he would stay and play Monopoly and they all glare daggers in the direction where Bruce had run off.

Dick is a bit shaken by all of the care they seem to hold towards him. He thought they knew, they just didn't say it. He gently turns them down and goes to take a shower.

Bruce gets the box and runs with it. He barges in Dick's room and doesn't even care about his kid being half naked. He dumps the contents of the box onto the floor "Bruce what are you...?"

The album is still there with the envelope and Bruce gives it to Dick and they cry and hug and look at the pictures. Bruce asks to adopt him and officially even if he's already an adult technically. Dick says yes and they go to the moping siblings whom have collected in the kitchen like stuck together pages.

They watch a movie on the couch, Bruce holds as many of his children as he can, the other on the furniture around him, his arms around his Dickie, just when he was a little kid.

The next day they announce his adoption and give a private interview about the happenings.

Now there's a meme going around the internet with all the Batkids at the gala and Bruce in the background with the caption: 'Oh shit, did I forget to adopt my kid?!?' description.

[korrasera]

If the paper that claims AI tools may cause cognitive atrophy is this one [source] then I just want to point out that they don't rely on any fMRI data to draw their conclusions.

That said, I think the op is right, so I read through the methods in the article and it sounds like a large dose of healthy skepticism is warranted:

Much of the data is derived from interviews that are then interpreted by the researchers. When someone scores high on cognitive offloading, for example, it means that they reported that they're relying on AI to do a bunch of tasks in their daily life.

The conclusions are drawn by correlating the survey answers to their scores on critical thinking tests. If someone scores high on cognitive offloading an AI trust, the researchers are saying that predicts a lower critical thinking test score (lower than expected for their cohort) that was then observed in the participants.

I didn't see any indication that study was done over a period of time, surveying the participants multiple times to look for changes in their results. It looks like the data was gathered all in one go and does not measure any change over time.

To me, that says that they may have found a correlation but that there's not enough evidence to draw a conclusion from it. And while science reporting is famously bad about misrepresenting actual research, the researchers in question are speculating about cognitive atrophy in the paper, so it doesn't seem like they're being particularly rigorous in not introducing bias themselves.

So yeah, I think the op is spot on.

I think that relying too much in LLMs can indeed harm your capacity for learning, in the same way that poor systems of learning (rote memorization, just copying whatever without thinking) can. Learning is a thing you need... to learn. Even LLMs can be a useful tool for learning as long as you have a good learning strategy.

That paper that says that AIs cause COGNITIVE ATROPHY is still unreviewd and smells so much of bullshit that I'm tearing up from here. Do not share it uncritically.