#job posting data scraping

[dreamerlynx]

me, still sitting with my laptop open in my lap: okay so you’ve basically. gone over and summarized the instructions for the assignment. good. it’s been all day you want to try actually starting?

me immediately: no

[ao3scrapesearch]

This tool is optional. No one is required to use it, but it's here if you want to know which of your AO3 fics were scraped. Locked works were not 100% protected from this scrape. Currently, I don't know of any next steps you should be taking, so this is all informational.

Most people should use this link to check if they were included in the March 2025 AO3 scrape. This will show up to 2,000 scraped works for most usernames.

Or you can use this version, which is slower but does a better job if your username is a common word. This version also lets you look up works by work ID number, which is useful if you're looking for an orphaned or anonymous fic.

If you have more than 2,000 published works, first off, I am jealous of your motivation to write that much. But second, that won't display right on the public version of the tools. You can send me an ask (preferred) or DM (if you need to) to have me do a custom search for you if you have more than 2,000 total works under 1 username. If you send an ask off-anon asking me to search a name, I'll assume you want a private answer.

In case this post breaches containment: this is a tool that only has access to the work IDs, titles, author names, chapter counts, and hit counts of the scraped fics for this most recent scrape by nyuuzyou discovered in April 2025. There is no other work data in this tool. This never had the content of your works loaded to it, only info to help you check if your works were scraped. If you need additional metadata, I can search my offline copy for you if you share a work ID number and tell me what data you're looking for. I will never search the full work text for anyone, but I can check things like word counts and tags.

Please come yell if the tool stops working, and I'll fix as fast as I can. It's slow as hell, but it does load eventually. Give it up to 10 minutes, and if it seems down after that, please alert me via ask! Anons are on if you're shy. The link at the top is faster and handles most users well.

On mobile, enable screen rotation and turn your phone sideways. It's a litttttle easier to use like that. It works better if you can use desktop.

Some FAQs below the cut:

"What do I need to do now?": At this time, the main place where this dataset was shared is disabled. As far as I'm aware, you don't need to do anything, but I'll update if I hear otherwise. If you're worried about getting scraped again, locking your fics to users only is NOT a guarantee, but it's a little extra protection. There are methods that can protect you more, but those will come at a cost of hiding your works from more potential readers as well.

"I know AO3 will be scraped again, and I'm willing to put a silly amount of effort into making my fics unusable for AI!": Excellent, stick around here. I'm currently trying to keep up with anyone working on solutions to poison our AO3 fics, and I will be reblogging information about doing this as I come across it.

"I want my fics to be unusable for AI, but I wanna be lazy about it.": You're so real for that, bestie. It may take awhile, but I'm on the lookout for data poisoning methods that require less effort, and I will boost posts regarding that once I find anything reputable.

"I don't want to know!": This tool is 100% optional. If you don't want to know, simply don't click the link. You are totally welcome to block me if it makes you feel more comfortable.

"Can I see the exact content they scraped?": Nope, not through me. I don't have the time to vet every single person to make sure they are who they say they are, and I don't want to risk giving a scraped copy of your fic to anyone else. If you really want to see this, you can find the info out there still and look it up yourself, but I can't be the one to do it for you.

"Are locked fics safe?": Not safe, but so far, it appears that locked fics were scraped less often than public fics. The only fics I haven't seen scraped as of right now are fics in unrevealed collections, which even logged-in users can't view without permission from the owner.

"My work wasn't a fic. It was an image/video/podfic.": You're safe! All the scrape got was stuff like the tags you used and your title and author name. The work content itself is a blank gap based on the samples I've checked.

"It's slow.": Unfortunately, a 13 million row data dashboard is going to be on the slow side. I think I've done everything I can to speed it up, but it may still take up to 10 minutes to load if you use the second link. It's faster if you can use desktop or the first link, but it should work on your phone too.

"My fic isn't there.": The cut-off date is around February 15th, 2025 for oneshots, but chapters posted up to March 21st, 2025 have been found in the data so far. I had to remove a few works from the dataset because the data was all skrungly and breaking my tool. (The few fics I removed were NOT in English.) Otherwise, from what I can tell so far, the scraper's code just... wasn't very good, so most likely, your fic was missed by random chance.

Thanks to everyone who helped with the cost to host the tool! I appreciate you so so so much. As of this edit, I've received more donations than what I paid to make this tool so you do NOT need to keep sending money. (But I super appreciate everyone who did help fund this! I just wanna make sure we all know it's all paid for now, so if you send any more that's just going to my savings to fix the electrical problems with my house. I don't have any more costs to support for this project right now.)

(Made some edits to the post on 27-May-2025 to update information!)

[kawaiiwizardtale]

How to analyze trends in job market

Discover how job scraping can be leveraged for market trend analysis and check out the methods of scraping job postings. Read more https://scrape.works/blog/how-to-analyze-trends-in-job-market/

[mobiledatascrape]

Recruitment App Data Scraping Services | Extract job posting data

Our Recruitment App data scraping services can streamline your recruitment process by extracting job posting data from top countries like USA, UK, UAE, and Spain.

know more:

[wordstome]

how c.ai works and why it's unethical

Okay, since the AI discourse is happening again, I want to make this very clear, because a few weeks ago I had to explain to a (well meaning) person in the community how AI works. I'm going to be addressing people who are maybe younger or aren't familiar with the latest type of "AI", not people who purposely devalue the work of creatives and/or are shills.

The name "Artificial Intelligence" is a bit misleading when it comes to things like AI chatbots. When you think of AI, you think of a robot, and you might think that by making a chatbot you're simply programming a robot to talk about something you want them to talk about, and it's similar to an rp partner. But with current technology, that's not how AI works. For a breakdown on how AI is programmed, CGP grey made a great video about this several years ago (he updated the title and thumbnail recently)

I HIGHLY HIGHLY recommend you watch this because CGP Grey is good at explaining, but the tl;dr for this post is this: bots are made with a metric shit-ton of data. In C.AI's case, the data is writing. Stolen writing, usually scraped fanfiction.

How do we know chatbots are stealing from fanfiction writers? It knows what omegaverse is [SOURCE] (it's a Wired article, put it in incognito mode if it won't let you read it), and when a Reddit user asked a chatbot to write a story about "Steve", it automatically wrote about characters named "Bucky" and "Tony" [SOURCE].

I also said this in the tags of a previous reblog, but when you're talking to C.AI bots, it's also taking your writing and using it in its algorithm: which seems fine until you realize 1. They're using your work uncredited 2. It's not staying private, they're using your work to make their service better, a service they're trying to make money off of.

"But Bucca," you might say. "Human writers work like that too. We read books and other fanfictions and that's how we come up with material for roleplay or fanfiction."

Well, what's the difference between plagiarism and original writing? The answer is that plagiarism is taking what someone else has made and simply editing it or mixing it up to look original. You didn't do any thinking yourself. C.AI doesn't "think" because it's not a brain, it takes all the fanfiction it was taught on, mixes it up with whatever topic you've given it, and generates a response like in old-timey mysteries where somebody cuts a bunch of letters out of magazines and pastes them together to write a letter.

(And might I remind you, people can't monetize their fanfiction the way C.AI is trying to monetize itself. Authors are very lax about fanfiction nowadays: we've come a long way since the Anne Rice days of terror. But this issue is cropping back up again with BookTok complaining that they can't pay someone else for bound copies of fanfiction. Don't do that either.)

Bottom line, here are the problems with using things like C.AI:

It is using material it doesn't have permission to use and doesn't credit anybody. Not only is it ethically wrong, but AI is already beginning to contend with copyright issues.

C.AI sucks at its job anyway. It's not good at basic story structure like building tension, and can't even remember things you've told it. I've also seen many instances of bots saying triggering or disgusting things that deeply upset the user. You don't get that with properly trigger tagged fanworks.

Your work and your time put into the app can be taken away from you at any moment and used to make money for someone else. I can't tell you how many times I've seen people who use AI panic about accidentally deleting a bot that they spent hours conversing with. Your time and effort is so much more stable and well-preserved if you wrote a fanfiction or roleplayed with someone and saved the chatlogs. The company that owns and runs C.AI can not only use whatever you've written as they see fit, they can take your shit away on a whim, either on purpose or by accident due to the nature of the Internet.

DON'T USE C.AI, OR AT THE VERY BARE MINIMUM DO NOT DO THE AI'S WORK FOR IT BY STEALING OTHER PEOPLES' WORK TO PUT INTO IT. Writing fanfiction is a communal labor of love. We share it with each other for free for the love of the original work and ideas we share. Not only can AI not replicate this, but it shouldn't.

(also, this goes without saying, but this entire post also applies to ai art)

[titleknown]

While I really hate the narrative of "tech bros" because of how it conflates shitty CEOs with non-shitty base-level programmers, and how it conflates Dunning-Kruger-y early adopters with people who Know Their Shit about computers...

...On the AI art issue, I will say, there is probably a legit a culture clash between people who primarily specialize in programming and people who primarily specialize in art.

Because, like, while in the experience of modern working illustrators a free commons has ended up representing a Hobbseyan experience of "a war of all against all" that's a constant threat to making a living, in software from what I can tell it's kinda been the reverse.

IE, freedom of access to shared code/information has kinda been seen as A Vital Thing wrt people's abilities to do their job at a core level. So, naturally, there's going to be some very different reactions to the morality of scraped data online.

And, it's probably the same reason that a lot of the creative commons movement came from the free software movement.

And while I agree a lot with the core principles of these movements, it's also probably unfortunately why they so often come off as tone-deaf and haven't really made that proper breakthrough wrt fighting against copyright bloat.

It also really doesn't help that, in terms of treatment by capital, for most of our lives programmers have been Mother's Special Little Boy whereas artists (especially online independent artists post '08 crash) have been treated as The Ratboy We Keep In The Basement And Throw Scraps To.

So, it make sense the latter would have resentment wrt the former...

[sugar-phoenix]

𖥔 . overheating . 𖥔

synopsis: you're out on an operation with Boothill, and after a long battle and a quick getaway, you turn to realize that the cyborg cowboy is...overheating. With all the implications that come with that. tags: f!reader (Boothill refers to reader as "Lady" and "Missy" once), no smut, fluff, light romance a/n: 1.3k words, wrote this in a craze based off of a headcanon that @k9wa and @nvuy posted about! tickled my brain too much!

ao3 link here!

The sound of gunshots rang out in the night. You ducked in your getaway vehicle, a hover car illegally outfitted with nitrogen turbo boosters. Sticking our head out of the car every now and then, you aimed your pistol at the heads of IPC guards, knocking them dead left and right.

Boothill had been inside the IPC base for a while now. It was supposed to be a quick job. He only needed to run in, download the secret data straight to one of the USB ports on his hip, and then run out. Probably nailing an IPC soldier or ten in the head while he was there.

“Boothill,” you muttered, “where are you?”

You met the cowboy only once before this operation — he had sought you out as a fellow Ranger against the IPC for your getaway vehicle.

“’M gonna be lootin’ a pretty big IPC base, ‘n I need some kinda escape route,” he drawled. “You git me?”

You happily agreed. Why not? Anything that would be a loss for the IPC was a win for you.

Not to mention the cyborg cowboy was one of the finer men you’d come across in your travels.

Presently, you shook that thought out of your mind and fired a shot at another guard. It’s better to stay clear-headed when you’re in a shootout. Any unholy thoughts were perfectly fine to sift through in safer, calmer settings.

“Where is that dang cowboy?” you muttered again for the fifth time.

A hoot and a holler rang through the air, and you glanced towards the entrance. As though in answer to your question, Boothill emerged from within the base, running full gallop towards the vehicle.

“Start drivin,’” he ordered as he slid into the passenger seat.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” you replied as more IPC soldiers spilled out of the entrance. The engine roared as you slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

“Ugh, turn up the A/C,” Boothill groaned.

“Turn ‘em up yourself, cowboy,” you responded. “I’m too busy making sure we’re getting away.”

The cyborg reached towards the dashboard and rotated the knob to the coolest possible setting. He leaned back into his seat, huffing and panting.

“All good?”

“Yeah. ‘S just a lot of fighting. Got me worked up.” He sniffed. “This dang A/C ain’t cool enough for me.”

You shrugged, checking the rearview mirror. The IPC vehicles were hot on your heels.  Thankfully, that wasn’t a problem for you. As an expert driver, you were fully trained in the art of evasive maneuvers. It’s what the cowboy hired you to do, after all.

You sped into the nearby city, a metropolis that conveniently had many twisty alleys and tight turns.

“This’ll be a piece of cake. Don’t you worry, cowboy,” you chuckled. The cowboy didn’t answer, and you were too busy focused on the road to check on him.

Drifting through intersections and jumping across lanes, you managed to throw off the majority of the IPC squadron pursuing you. There were only three small hover vehicles left, chasing you through a single-lane alleyway. You revved your engine to taunt them and cackled as the reverberations echoed off the buildings on either side.

The hovercar drifted, fishtailing as you made a sharp turn to the right. You swore as the sound of screaming metal rang out in the air, signaling that your spoilers had scraped against the walls.

“That’s gonna cost ya, cowboy,” you quipped, smiling as you saw two of the three vehicles crash into the wall behind you.

“Lady, I ain’t at fault for your drivin’ skills.”

You snapped your head towards Boothill, giving him a full-on death glare.

“Not that you drive bad, missy! I was just sayin,” he said, raising his hands up in surrender. It was then that you realized he’d unzipped his jacket, letting it fall lazily off his shoulders.

Heat rising to your cheeks, you snapped your attention back to the road, trying to evade the last IPC hover vehicle. A few quick turns and an IPC crash later, you pulled into a dark alleyway and braked, turning off the car.

“Why are we stoppin’?” Boothill asked.

“They’re probably swarming the city. Best to lie low for now until it all subsides.”

There was shuffling in the passenger seat, and you turned to look.

Boothill laid back against the seat, his limbs sprawled out. His bangs were arranged in wet clumps, and sweat gleamed off his face in the glow from distant neon signs. The rest of his long hair was put up along the headrest behind him, leaving his neck bare. His jacket, bandana, and hat were thrown in the back, leaving his upper torso bare for all the world to see. His pants were shrugged low on his hip, almost revealing his unmentionables (did cyborgs even have unmentionables?). Panting and huffing, he closed his eyes, frowning. You could hear a loud hum emanate from within his robot body.

“Boothill?” you croaked, fighting to speak through the feeling of your brain frying in your skull. It wasn’t just his appearance that was, well, hot, but a boiling heat was radiating off of him. You had hardly noticed in all the earlier action.

“Yes, darlin’?” He groaned. Your heart fluttered at the way he said darlin.’

“What. Are you doing?” You hardly thought the cowboy was one to give in to his darker desires at the drop of a hat, although there was something off about the scene that told you it wasn’t motivated by lust.

He chuckled before answering.

“Told ya I got worked up during that fight. I’m overheatin.’ One of the problems with having a robot body, ya get me?” Boothill breathed out heavily, his breath steaming in the air. “Fudge,” he muttered, closing his eyes and frowning again.

“Are you in pain?” you asked. His stance was akin to a man tortured, impaled from the back with hot iron spears.

“Nah, darlin,’ nothin’ like that. Just… hot, is all. Really fudgin’ hot.” Boothill let out a breath of steam again. “It’ll go away, like it always does. I jus’ need ta’ keep still for a lil’ bit. Let it cool down.”

You leaned over him, trying to ignore how close you were to his hot (both physically and metaphorically) abs, and pushed the passenger door open. It only went so far as the narrow alleyway let it, but you could feel the cold air of the night wash over you both.

“Thank ya’ kindly, darlin,’” he murmured.

“Don’t mention it,” you said, leaning back. You jumped when your arm brushed over his body.

“Did I burn ya?” Boothill didn’t move but his eyes fixed you with a worried look.

“No, you didn’t, it’s just…” You trailed off, not knowing how to end that sentence without embarrassing yourself. A heat creeped over your cheeks again.

“Oh, I see,” he smiled. “You can touch me if ya want darlin.’ I don’t bite.” He punctuated that sentence with a wide grin, showing off his shark-like teeth.

“But not right now,” he said as you tentatively reached an arm towards him. “Not while I’m hot like this. And it ain’t cause I might burn ya sweetie, but with all due respect, I ain’t wanna touch anything right this moment.”

“Got it,” you said sitting straight back in your seat.

A silence filled the car, gently broken by the whir of Boothill’s internal fans and the ambient hum of the city outside.

It was a comfortable, soft kind of silence. You let it soak into your flesh, down to your bones, etching this moment inside of yourself. It was nice.

“’Course, when I’m not overheatin,” Boothill murmured, “you’re free to touch whatever.” He grinned mischievously.

“Stop it,” you said. “You’re gonna make me overheat.”

dividers by cafekitsune

[ekingston]

Hi; I don't know if you're still following the word-stream stuff, but the app is back online on the app store as "booktok - books and podcasts". The reviews marking it as having AI scraped data are still on the page itself, even though the name has changed, and duckduckgo still directs to their page if you look up "word-stream audiobooks"-- although if I don't know how long that will last. The website is seemingly gone, but the app still presumably has access to all the stolen works in the database.

Best regards, -someone else whose fics were stolen

yup

word-stream is back

it just calls itself—in an obvious attempt to profit from the TikTok upheaval—BookTok, now. and it’s not just the app, either: the whole website is back online, same as it was just before Cliff Weitzman took it down.

(in case you missed it, here are the original story & the update.)

fortunately (so far) the fanfiction category hasn't been re-added, but if you go to the store page for the app you can see that it’s still using 'fan-created universes' as advertising.

Weitzman didn't register the app under his own name this time, but through something called 'Oak Prime Inc'. hilariously, however, the email address listed in BookTok's privacy policy still refers to word-stream.com, so if Cliff was trying to scrub the connection between Speechify and his BookTok app, he didn't do a very thorough job.

here's the thing (and i'm about to put this up in a separate, more easily digestible post): if you take a look at the terms & conditions of Cliff's other platform, Speechify, it claims a truly comprehensive license to use the works uploaded to that platform in any way Cliff sees fit, including publishing and monetizing it elsewhere. and i keep seeing posts on Reddit and Bluesky from both readers and writers, happily using the Speechify app to read fanfic, advanced reader copies and their own yet-to-be-published work to them.

this is a BAD IDEA. Cliff has already proven that he will take work authored by others without their permission and redistribute it wholesale if he thinks it might make him money.

Cliff is the financial beneficiary of both Speechify and word-stream/booktokapp. it seems pretty obvious to me that he's trying to claim, via Speechify's terms & conditions, that every work uploaded to Speechify is his to do with whatever he pleases, which naturally includes moving them to this other platform so he can charge people for two subscriptions instead of just the one.

thank you so much for keeping an eye on this, anon, and for reaching out!! like i said, another post will go up today about the above, but i'm going to ask you all to help ensure that my posts & my name aren't the only ones giving voice to this message. when i tried to approach people about this issue on social media, often the—completely justified!—response was 'why should I take your word for it?' and Wikipedia only allowed the mention of Weitzman's copyright infringement to remain on his page when 'The Endless Appetite for Fanfiction' was listed as a source.

it can't just be me. DON’T take my word for it. do your own research (i would love to be proven wrong about this!), talk to your friends, engage with posts on social media similar to the ones i mentioned above (those are just some examples, don’t pile on to the OPs!) and make sure people know what they're jeopardizing. help me protect authors from money-grubbing shitheads like this one.

[buttercandy16]

Shadows from the Past

Sequel to "The Bully"

PAIRING: Dark!Agatha Harkness x Reader

SUMMARY: Your past will never let you go.

WARNING(s): Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, Manipulation, Torture, and many more Dark Themes.

Years had passed, but the ghost of Agatha Harkness lingered in your life, her shadow creeping into every corner of your mind. No matter how much distance you tried to put between yourself and her—geographically, mentally, emotionally—she always found a way to slip back in.

High school was behind you, yet the horrors endured in those dimly lit hallways clung to you like old scars that refused to fade. She had turned your formative years into an unrelenting nightmare. Your only solace had been leaving town the day after what happened in the cafeteria, promising yourself you’d rebuild from the rubble she’d left behind.

But escaping Agatha wasn’t as easy as leaving.

Life hadn’t been kind since your departure. You’d scraped by working dead-end jobs: waitressing, retail, data entry. Nothing lasted. Over time, you began to feel cursed. Managers would praise you one moment and fire you the next. Coworkers would smile at you but whisper behind your back. Each dismissal came with the same dismissive refrain: “It’s not a good fit.”

Each time, you wondered what you’d done wrong, what flaw they saw in you that made them push you out. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the suspicion that it wasn’t just bad luck. It was a feeling that settled deep in your gut: a cruel hand was behind all of this.

You stared at the eviction notice pinned to the cracked wall of your studio apartment. It mocked you, its red letters glaring against the yellowed wallpaper like a physical manifestation of failure.

Thirty days to vacate. Thirty days to figure out where you were going to sleep next. You couldn’t borrow money—you’d already alienated the few friends you had left by constantly asking for help. No family wanted to step in either; they’d given up hope long ago.

Slumping down onto the edge of your creaky bed, you stared at your phone screen, scrolling through endless job postings with no responses. You’d applied to over thirty positions in the past month. Nothing.

It felt personal. Too personal.

That’s when the email arrived.

The notification flashed across the screen, an unexpected break in the monotony. There was no subject line, and the sender’s name was unfamiliar. Normally, you would have deleted it without a second thought. But desperation pushed your fingers to open it.

The message was brief but chilling:

*Dearest [Your Name],

I’ve been watching. It seems life hasn’t been kind to you since our time together. But I can make all of your problems disappear. I can offer you comfort, stability, even a home. All you have to do is come back to me.

Meet me at 845 Blackthorne Drive tomorrow, 8 PM. Refuse, and… well, you know how persistent I can be.*

The blood drained from your face. You didn’t need to guess who had sent it. You knew. Of course, it was her. Agatha.

You closed the email immediately, your hands trembling, bile rising in your throat. You hadn’t heard her name—or dared speak it—in years. You had forced yourself to believe she was a distant nightmare.

But now, the past was staring you in the face, with claws sharpened and fangs bared.

The mansion loomed at the end of a long, winding road, shrouded by gnarled trees that reached toward the sky like skeletal hands. Blackthorne Drive was far enough from the rest of town that it felt completely cut off from reality. The house itself was imposing, its gothic architecture exuding an eerie dominance. The massive iron gates groaned as they opened, as if reluctant to let you pass.

Your car crawled up the driveway. The building grew larger and more menacing with each inch closer. Stone gargoyles leered down from the rooftop, their grotesque forms barely discernible against the stormy evening sky. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark silhouette of a figure standing at the top of the stairs.

Agatha.

She looked exactly as you remembered, though years had polished her beauty into something sharper and more refined. The same piercing blue eyes, the same cruel smirk that had haunted you for so long. Her tailored suit clung to her form, exuding authority and control.

“Right on time,” she said, her voice cutting through the heavy rain like a blade.

You clutched the strap of your bag tightly. “I didn’t have a choice.”

A smile curved her lips, but there was no warmth in it. “You’ve always had a choice, sweetheart. You just never make the right one.”

Her words stirred old memories—memories you had fought to suppress. The cafeteria, the locker defacements, her voice whispering cruel truths in your ear. You had spent years trying to build a wall between you and those memories, and now it felt as if she was tearing it down with every step she took closer to you.

“Come inside. Let’s discuss the terms of your employment,” she purred.

The interior of the mansion was no less intimidating. It was darkly elegant, with rich mahogany floors, towering bookshelves, and ornate chandeliers. Yet there was a suffocating energy that weighed down the air, making it hard to breathe.

“Your duties will be simple,” Agatha said, circling you like a lion stalking its prey. “Clean. Serve. Obey.”

Her tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of menace in her words. She wanted you to remember who held the power now—if you’d ever had any to begin with.

You tried to protest. “Agatha, this isn’t—”

“Ms. Harkness,” she corrected sharply, her eyes narrowing. “We’re not on a first-name basis anymore, darling.”

Her smirk deepened as you faltered, biting back your words. She reached out, running her fingers along the edge of your jaw, forcing you to meet her gaze.

“You’ll find,” she said softly, “that resisting me has consequences.”

The first month in Agatha's mansion blurred into an endless cycle of humiliation and despair. Each morning, you woke to a rigid schedule outlined in excruciating detail. Agatha handed you the list herself, her fingers grazing yours as she delivered it with a sly smirk. It wasn’t just work—it was a gauntlet designed to test your limits.

The tasks were mundane in concept but laced with subtle malice. Polishing the marble floors until they reflected like glass was a daily occurrence, though she ensured new scuffs appeared overnight. Preparing her meals required precision to an absurd degree: the perfect temperature, perfect presentation, and even the placement of silverware had to match her exacting standards.

She monitored your every move, ensuring you were always within her grasp. Every task she gave you became a test of your endurance, every failure an opportunity for her to assert dominance.

One day, she ordered you to scrub the kitchen floor on your hands and knees. The task was grueling, the heat from the stove making the air heavy as you worked. Agatha leaned casually against the counter, sipping wine as she watched you struggle.

“You missed a spot,” she said idly, pointing to an invisible imperfection.

Your hands trembled as you scrubbed harder, the muscles in your arms burning with the effort.

“Pathetic,” she murmured, her voice low and mocking. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

You paused, your breath hitching as her words dug into your skin like needles.

“I see someone who was nothing before I came into her life,” she continued, her voice sharp. “You think you’ve suffered? You have no idea what suffering is.”

Her words lit a spark of defiance in you, even as tears stung your eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” you choked out, your voice raw with emotion. “What do you want from me?”

Agatha crouched beside you, her cold blue eyes locking onto yours.

“I want you to realize that you belong to me,” she said softly, her hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You always have. And you always will.”

Agatha began finding excuses to pull you away from your duties, insisting on long, tense dinners where she dissected every aspect of your life. She pried into your thoughts, your fears, your dreams, twisting them into weapons to control you.

“You’ve always been so weak,” she remarked one evening, her tone almost pitying. “Even back in high school, you needed someone to guide you. You’d have been eaten alive without me.”

Her words reopened old wounds, the memories of her torment flooding back with brutal clarity.

“You’re wrong,” you said, your voice trembling but defiant. “I was fine until you came into my life.”

Agatha’s smile faltered for a brief moment, her expression hardening.

“Fine?” she echoed, her voice icy. “Do you call this fine?” She gestured to the house, to the life she had engineered around you. “I gave you everything. Without me, you’d have nothing.”

Her words struck a painful chord, but you refused to let her see the effect they had.

“I’d rather have nothing than live like this,” you said, the defiance in your voice wavering but unbroken.

Agatha’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening as her control slipped for the briefest of moments.

“Careful, sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice dangerously soft. “You’re treading on thin ice.”

Her cruelty wasn’t just about control—it was about possession. She wanted you to feel her presence in every corner of your mind, to know that no matter how far you ran, you would always belong to her.

Her games became more psychological. She’d arrange personal items in your room—things you’d never brought with you, things you’d left behind in high school. A worn notebook you’d written in during freshman year. A bracelet you hadn’t seen in years. Each item was a reminder that she had always been watching, always waiting.

One evening, she cornered you in the kitchen, her hands bracketing your body against the counter. The faint scent of lavender filled the air, mingling with the oppressive tension.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she said, her voice dripping with mock concern. “Are you unhappy here, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer.

Her hand cupped your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze. “Do you know why no one wants you? Why every door you’ve tried to open has been slammed in your face?”

Her smirk deepened as your silence stretched. “Because I made it so.”

Your heart sank, the weight of her confession crushing you. Of course, it had been her. Every rejection, every failure, every lost opportunity—it had all been orchestrated by her.

“Why?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

She leaned in, her breath ghosting over your ear. “Because if I can’t have you, no one can.”

The second month in the mansion was worse. Agatha’s punishments became more invasive, more intimate. She began to invade your space with increasing frequency, her touch lingering longer than necessary—a hand brushing against your arm as she passed, fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re mine,” she reminded you constantly, her voice a low purr that sent chills down your spine. “I’ve always loved you, you know. Even back then.”

Her twisted idea of love suffocated you. She wanted you to break, to surrender, to accept her as the center of your world.

And yet, there were moments of terrifying vulnerability in her eyes. Moments when she looked at you not with malice, but with a desperate longing that bordered on obsession.

“You don’t understand, do you?” she whispered one night, her hand resting on your cheek. “I did all of this for you. To protect you. To keep you safe.”

Safe. The word felt like a cruel joke, given the hell she had put you through.

What little humanity she offered was just as terrifying as her cruelty. Late one evening, you collapsed against the counter, your muscles aching from scrubbing floors for hours. Agatha appeared behind you, her presence announced by the familiar scent of lavender and something darker—whiskey, maybe.

She placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it just enough to make you stiffen. “I can ease this for you, you know,” she said, her voice soft yet sharp as a knife. “All you have to do is surrender.”

You didn’t dare ask what she meant, but you could see it in her eyes. Agatha didn’t just want your service. She wanted every part of you: body, mind, and soul.

When you flinched away, she sighed in mock pity. “You’ll see eventually,” she murmured. “It’s only a matter of time before you’re mine entirely.”

It was a game to her, an amusement at your expense. She thrived on your frustration, your exhaustion, the trembling in your hands as you tried—and inevitably failed—to meet her impossible demands.

Agatha ensured you were utterly dependent on her. The mansion was isolated, far from town, and the cell service was mysteriously spotty at best. Every attempt to reach out for help was met with failure—calls that wouldn’t connect, emails that bounced back.

One night, after weeks of relentless torment, Agatha pushed you too far. She had caught you crying in your room, curled up on the floor, your body trembling with exhaustion and despair. Instead of offering comfort, she stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Look at you,” she said softly, almost tenderly. “So fragile. So weak. You need me, don’t you?”

When you didn’t respond, she stepped closer, crouching in front of you. Her hand reached out, tilting your chin up so you were forced to look at her.

“You’ll see it one day,” she murmured. “You’ll see that I’m the only one who’s ever truly loved you.”

Something inside you snapped. All the fear, all the pain, all the years of suffering boiled over in a wave of anger and defiance.

“Love?” you spat, your voice shaking. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

For a moment, Agatha’s mask slipped. Her eyes darkened, her expression hardening into something unreadable. Then, without warning, she grabbed your wrist, pulling you to your feet.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” she hissed, her grip bruising. “Not after everything I’ve done for you.”

Her voice cracked with something raw, something vulnerable, but it only fueled your defiance.

“You don’t own me,” you said, the words trembling but firm.

Agatha’s lips curled into a dangerous smile. “Oh, darling,” she whispered, her voice low and menacing. “I already do.”

You should’ve left. Walked out the front door that very first day and refused to let Agatha Harkness tighten her grip on your life. But desperation binds people, ties them to their torment in cruel, unyielding knots. You were broke, friendless, and hopeless. Agatha knew this. She had engineered this.

One day, driven by an overwhelming need for freedom, you slipped out of the mansion while Agatha was occupied in her study. You didn’t have a destination, only an overwhelming desire to breathe air that wasn’t tainted by her presence.

But you didn’t get far.

A black car pulled up beside you within minutes. The windows rolled down, revealing Agatha’s ice-cold gaze.

“Tsk, tsk, darling,” she said, her voice cutting through the quiet night. “Running away without saying goodbye?”

Her driver opened the back door, and Agatha stepped out, stalking toward you with the predatory elegance you had come to fear.

“I warned you,” she whispered, gripping your wrist with surprising strength. “There’s no escaping me.”

The ride back to the mansion was silent. Her grip never left your wrist, her nails digging into your skin. When you arrived, she led you inside with a calm, almost detached demeanor.

“I thought I was being kind,” she said once you were inside, closing the door with a resounding click. “Letting you work for me instead of keeping you locked away. But it seems you need to learn your place.”

Agatha’s grip on your wrist tightened as she pulled you closer, the dangerous gleam in her eyes making your heart race with equal parts fear and anger. She exuded control, towering over you not just physically but emotionally, the years of torment heavy between you like an anchor.

“You say I don’t own you, but here you are.” Her voice was soft, almost soothing, but her words dripped with venom. “You came to me, desperate, broken… and I welcomed you. I gave you purpose. Don’t you see?” She leaned in, her lips just brushing your ear. “You were always meant to be mine.”

The suffocating weight of her words threatened to overwhelm you. Agatha had taken everything from you—your independence, your sense of self, and now, even your will to fight. You stood there, frozen, as her fingers brushed along your jawline, a twisted facsimile of tenderness.

But there was no love in her touch. Only possession.

“You owe me,” she whispered, her face inches from yours. “You owe me everything. And you’re not going anywhere.”

That night, Agatha removed every shred of freedom you had left. No phone. No access to the outside world. You weren’t her maid anymore. You were her prisoner.

The days that followed were a blur of torment and submission. Agatha’s control tightened around you like a noose, her presence suffocating every moment of your existence.

One evening, as you lay in the cold, sterile confines of your room, a realization washed over you: there was no escape. Agatha had trapped you in her web, her obsession consuming you completely.

And in the depths of your despair, a horrifying truth began to take root.

You had fought so hard to resist her, to maintain your independence, but the constant push and pull of her control had worn you down. You were no longer the person you had been, no longer the girl who had dreamed of freedom and a fresh start.

You were hers.

And she knew it.

Agatha stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of the hallway lights.

“You’re finally starting to understand,” she said, her voice soft but triumphant.

Tears streamed down your face as you looked at her, your defiance crumbling under the weight of her control.

“Why me?” you whispered, your voice breaking.

Agatha stepped into the room, her gaze never leaving yours.

“Because,” she said, her voice tender and possessive, “you’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted. And now, you’re mine.”

The moment your defiance crumbled, it felt like death. The person you had fought to hold onto, the fragments of your former self that Agatha hadn’t destroyed, slipped from your grasp like sand through your fingers. What replaced them was something darker—a hollow version of you, shaped by her control and your desperation to survive.

Agatha stood over you, a predator basking in her triumph, her blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she watched the tears streak your face. Her hand cupped your cheek, the possessiveness in her touch both suffocating and strangely comforting.

"That's it," she whispered, her voice soft as velvet. "No more fighting. No more pretending you're anything other than mine."

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Instead, you let your body sink into the bed, limp and resigned, as she leaned in, brushing her lips against your temple. The gesture was almost gentle, but it only served as a reminder of the power she held over you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was thick with unspoken truths, with the undeniable reality of what you had become. You hated yourself for it—for the small, treacherous part of you that found solace in her touch, that craved the twisted sense of stability she provided. Agatha had broken you down to the point where even her cruelty felt like love.

And that was what terrified you the most.

Agatha’s dominance over your life grew even stronger after that night. She no longer needed to coerce or threaten you—your surrender had made that unnecessary. Instead, she began to blur the lines between control and affection, lacing her cruelty with moments of twisted kindness that left you reeling.

She bought you expensive clothes, dressing you in fabrics that felt like cages. “You look stunning,” she would say, her tone dripping with approval. “Perfect for me.”

She demanded your presence during her late-night dinners, insisting that you sit beside her as she drank her wine and recounted the day’s events. Sometimes, her hand would rest on your thigh, her grip firm but not painful, a constant reminder of her claim over you.

Other times, she would pull you into her lap, her arms wrapped around you like steel bands. “Tell me you belong to me,” she would whisper, her breath hot against your ear. And every time, you would nod, your voice trembling as you gave her the answer she wanted.

“I belong to you.”

Over time, the resentment that had once burned brightly within you began to dim, replaced by a numb acceptance of your new reality. Agatha’s world became your world, her needs and desires shaping every aspect of your existence.

She began to soften in subtle ways, her sharp edges smoothing out as she reveled in her victory. She would brush your hair before bed, her fingers gentle as they combed through the strands. She would trace the scars on your wrists from past despair, her lips pressing against them as she murmured, “You’re safe with me now.”

It was a cruel irony, the way she twisted the concept of safety to mean submission. But in your fractured mind, her words began to hold a strange kind of truth. Agatha had stripped you of everything—your independence, your identity, your dreams—but she had also filled the void she had created. Her presence, as suffocating as it was, had become the only constant in your life.

One night, as you lay beside her in bed, her arms wrapped around you like a cage, you found yourself leaning into her touch. The realization hit you like a blow to the chest—you no longer hated her as fiercely as you once had.

“I hate you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the darkness. But the tears that slid down your cheeks betrayed the lie in your words.

Agatha’s lips curved into a knowing smile as she tightened her hold on you. “No, you don’t,” she murmured, her voice filled with twisted affection. “You just hate how much you need me.”

And in that moment, you knew she was right.

Your days bled into weeks, then months, until time became meaningless. The life you had once imagined for yourself—a life of freedom, of love untainted by pain—faded into the background, a distant memory overshadowed by the reality of your existence with Agatha.

She had transformed you into exactly what she wanted: a creature entirely dependent on her, bound to her by a dark and unshakable connection. And as much as you despised what you had become, a part of you—small and desperate—began to find comfort in the life she had built for you.

Agatha, for her part, seemed utterly satisfied. She no longer needed to assert her dominance with cruelty; your surrender had solidified her victory. Instead, she began to lavish you with affection, her gestures laced with a possessiveness that made your skin crawl and your heart ache.

“You’re mine forever,” she would say, her lips brushing against your temple as she held you close. And every time, you would nod, the words leaving your lips like a prayer.

“I’m yours.”

But deep down, a tiny spark of defiance still flickered within you, buried beneath the layers of submission and survival. It was a fragile thing, easily snuffed out by Agatha’s overwhelming presence, but it remained—a reminder that, no matter how deeply she had claimed you, a part of you still longed for freedom.

And as you lay in her arms, her breath warm against your skin, you couldn’t help but wonder: would that spark ever be enough to set you free? Or were you destined to remain trapped in her web, a willing prisoner of her dark and twisted love?

Agatha’s voice broke the silence, her words soft but commanding. “Say it,” she murmured, her lips brushing against your ear. “Say you love me.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you hesitated, the weight of her command pressing down on you like a vice. And then, with tears streaming down your face, you gave her what she wanted.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words tasting like ashes on your tongue.

Agatha’s smile was triumphant as she pulled you closer, her arms tightening around you in a suffocating embrace. “Good girl,” she purred. “You’re mine, and I’ll never let you go.”

And in that moment, you realized the horrifying truth: you didn’t want her to.

[feminist-space]

"Artists have finally had enough with Meta’s predatory AI policies, but Meta’s loss is Cara’s gain. An artist-run, anti-AI social platform, Cara has grown from 40,000 to 650,000 users within the last week, catapulting it to the top of the App Store charts.

Instagram is a necessity for many artists, who use the platform to promote their work and solicit paying clients. But Meta is using public posts to train its generative AI systems, and only European users can opt out, since they’re protected by GDPR laws. Generative AI has become so front-and-center on Meta’s apps that artists reached their breaking point.

“When you put [AI] so much in their face, and then give them the option to opt out, but then increase the friction to opt out… I think that increases their anger level — like, okay now I’ve really had enough,” Jingna Zhang, a renowned photographer and founder of Cara, told TechCrunch.

Cara, which has both a web and mobile app, is like a combination of Instagram and X, but built specifically for artists. On your profile, you can host a portfolio of work, but you can also post updates to your feed like any other microblogging site.

Zhang is perfectly positioned to helm an artist-centric social network, where they can post without the risk of becoming part of a training dataset for AI. Zhang has fought on behalf of artists, recently winning an appeal in a Luxembourg court over a painter who copied one of her photographs, which she shot for Harper’s Bazaar Vietnam.

“Using a different medium was irrelevant. My work being ‘available online’ was irrelevant. Consent was necessary,” Zhang wrote on X.

Zhang and three other artists are also suing Google for allegedly using their copyrighted work to train Imagen, an AI image generator. She’s also a plaintiff in a similar lawsuit against Stability AI, Midjourney, DeviantArt and Runway AI.

“Words can’t describe how dehumanizing it is to see my name used 20,000+ times in MidJourney,” she wrote in an Instagram post. “My life’s work and who I am—reduced to meaningless fodder for a commercial image slot machine.”

Artists are so resistant to AI because the training data behind many of these image generators includes their work without their consent. These models amass such a large swath of artwork by scraping the internet for images, without regard for whether or not those images are copyrighted. It’s a slap in the face for artists – not only are their jobs endangered by AI, but that same AI is often powered by their work.

“When it comes to art, unfortunately, we just come from a fundamentally different perspective and point of view, because on the tech side, you have this strong history of open source, and people are just thinking like, well, you put it out there, so it’s for people to use,” Zhang said. “For artists, it’s a part of our selves and our identity. I would not want my best friend to make a manipulation of my work without asking me. There’s a nuance to how we see things, but I don’t think people understand that the art we do is not a product.”

This commitment to protecting artists from copyright infringement extends to Cara, which partners with the University of Chicago’s Glaze project. By using Glaze, artists who manually apply Glaze to their work on Cara have an added layer of protection against being scraped for AI.

Other projects have also stepped up to defend artists. Spawning AI, an artist-led company, has created an API that allows artists to remove their work from popular datasets. But that opt-out only works if the companies that use those datasets honor artists’ requests. So far, HuggingFace and Stability have agreed to respect Spawning’s Do Not Train registry, but artists’ work cannot be retroactively removed from models that have already been trained.

“I think there is this clash between backgrounds and expectations on what we put on the internet,” Zhang said. “For artists, we want to share our work with the world. We put it online, and we don’t charge people to view this piece of work, but it doesn’t mean that we give up our copyright, or any ownership of our work.”"

Read the rest of the article here:

https://techcrunch.com/2024/06/06/a-social-app-for-creatives-cara-grew-from-40k-to-650k-users-in-a-week-because-artists-are-fed-up-with-metas-ai-policies/

[theproverbialpen]

So I uh. Thought of a joke while moving. And unfortunately, I am the final boss of “Commit to the Bit.” So have an unnecessarily detailed series of drawings lol.

Anyways hi! Hope y’all have been well! Other than answering asks, it’s been a while since I dropped content up in this B. Updates below the cut, if you’re curious :)

Proverb’s Personal Life

As of last week, I am officially moved into my new place! Still working on unpacking (you can accumulate a lot of shit over two years) and my PC will need a good ol’ dusting before I get her back online, but we’re making progress slowly but surely. Hoping to get settled and make some time to start writing again next week :)

However, updates will be slower than I originally anticipated becaauuuuuse I also got promoted at my job! Very excited for this next step but it uh, does mean 5 hours of overtime every week (the pay is worth it I promise, we must do what we must do in this capitalist hellscape). So, will be making time to write when I can but there’ll definitely be more of a gap between posts versus pre-move.

Speaking of writing though:

Update “Schedule”

Schedule in quotations because I’m not going to have dates attached to these per se. However, wanted to give y’all an idea of what you can expect to be coming on this here blog:

Hermes Lap Dance One-Shot. Should be easy enough to write and I think it’ll be a good warmup for getting back in the groove!

Chapter 7 of SiSeSo. I think this next chapter is gonna be smut? Have to see how it flows once I get going, but I have a basic skeleton and if it feels natural, we’ll be heading right back into the spice very soon 😈

Poseidon x Reader A/B/O Drabble. Listen I…as we can see, a bitch commits to the bit. If anyone has any fic recs for inspiration lmk cause I really do kinda want to send it on this one 😂

I also have a WIP drawing of Rockstar Poseidon in the works, as well as some other doodle ideas. More art on the horizon, but who knows when I’ll get those done haha.

Also, my ask box is always open if you have requests! I’m a little rusty in the writing department at the moment so happy to work on some drabbles and such if folks have anything they’d like to see :)

AO3 Scrape Incidents

I reblogged something a little while ago about the AI data scrapes that happened on AO3 and it’s still something I’m looking to address. I’ll probably be switching my works to Registered Users Only when I get the time just so folks are aware. Considering doing a series of backlog posts here on tumblr of all my content just so folks have another option to read. But, if you want to continue reading on AO3 and you don’t have an account, please be aware that you’ll need to register for one moving forward!

I think that’s everything for now? Hope you enjoyed my stupid little comic and I’m looking forward to being more active on here again！

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

[felassan]

Some snippets (compilation) from the comments section of [this recent video] by Mark Darrah on YouTube titled ’How 2017 Changed BioWare 1000 Ways’.

rest of post under cut due to length.

Mark Darrah: "BioWare seems to be rebuilding now. I guess we'll have to keep watching"

Mark Darrah: "BioWare and EA seem to be fully behind the next Mass Effect"

User: "I hope the next Mass Effect brings the studio back on track, I doubt they will have many chances left if that game fails. Judging by the people that are involved, they are definitely trying." Mark Darrah: "Seems like"

Mark Darrah: "I don’t know what is next for DA"

Mark Darrah: "A super rushed Joplin likely would have been deeply flawed"

User: "I often learn more about what was going on at Bioware from this channel than I did in 10 years working at Bioware 🙃" Mark Darrah: "oof" Aaryn Flynn: "I learned some things too!" Mark Darrah: "@ blind men touching an elephant"

Bryan Johnson: "Very interesting to hear your perspective since I definitely was not a high level person. Crazy how much they kept the Casey return, as a few of us knew about it a bit earlier because we wrote something to scrape the employee staff data as we were getting tired of not hearing about people leaving the company." Mark Darrah: "wow"

User: "The shenanigans you just described, combined with David Gaider's recent posts about his own treatment at this company solves the mystery as to why DA has ended up in the state it's in. Thank you for clarifying." Mark Darrah: "I wouldn’t put it all on 2017"

User: "As someone who adores Dragon Age, it seems EA doesn't understand RPG fantasy games and doesn't understand what they have with Dragon Age and probably never will." Mark Darrah: "Likely"

User: "I can tell you as strictly a fan that I FELT the 'pivot' as you called it, in 2017. Andromeda felt half old BioWare and half something I didn't recognize as the same language. Anthem was a completely different dialect. SOMETHING was obviously changing at BioWare..." Mark Darrah: "That said, Anthem had been in development a WHILE by 2017"

User: "The level of organizational disfunction at such a big company is astounding." Mark Darrah: "Very common"

User: "I truly wish EA cared more for fsntasy, because it definitely seems like sci-fi and sports is what the higher-ups drool over." Mark Darrah: "We'll see what the future has to bring but..."

User: "And in all that time, Star Wars the Old Republic was keeping up Bioware's slack. Now they don't have that option anymore." Mark Darrah: "It was. Though I'm not sure EA saw it that way"

User: "The infuriating part of all this is that nobody even got what they wanted. Especially EA. The behaviour of these execs would at least be explicable if it had led to commercial success, but it didn't. Why are business execs so uniquely bad at doing business? It's their only job." Mark Darrah: "Successful Live services make so much that the risk was seen as worth it"

Mark Darrah: "Montreal didn't work on Anthem, they were moved to a different EA studio"

Mark Darrah: "Quarter based isn’t great planning for gamedev"

User: "It was a big surprise that BioWare didn't crumble immediately like so many before (Westwood, Origin, Bullfrog, Mythic). It's fascinating to learn that it was because BioWare was put under EA Sports management who were in no position to meddle with the development of RPGs." Mark Darrah: "The EA sports thing happened a bit later... I want to say 2013 or something."

User: "I am still hopeful, despite everything that's happened, that we'll still see more Dragon Age at some point" Mark Darrah: "You never know. EA owns a LOT of IPs"

Mark Darrah: "It’s the nature of most corporations to focus on costs longer term than revenue. Which is an issue for things that take many years to do"

Mark Darrah: "Every game that ships is a miracle"

User: "I am an optimistic. I hope that DA will be back and that EA and Bioware ups realise what a gem Dragon age truly is." Mark Darrah: "Hopefully"

Mark Darrah: "There was a story about Andromeda threading the needle between colonialism and a refugee story and telling neither story fully but that never got discussed"

Mark Darrah: "I do think MEA could have repaired its rep if given more post launch time"

User: "This is so sad. I really hope these videos bring some kinda change, whether it be with EA or teach other developers/publishers about what not to do." Mark Darrah: "..."

User: "Veigulard is like a product of this turbulent development process and continuos change of scope without respect to the development team." Mark Darrah: "Veilguard is a story for another day... hopefully"

Mark Darrah: "SWTOR was always a mystery to me too. It seemed like they had a pretty clear "If we sped 1$ we get more than 1$ back" repeatable model but it wasn't valued."

User: "I guess my only question is, did Casey Hudson ever actually fought for the Joplin vision/to keep DA Singleplayer at all? It seems odd to me that EA allowed DA to go back to Singleplayer in early 2021, shortly after Hudson left. I mean, Anthem was his idea and it flopped. The Jason Schreier articles stated devs were calling the live service Morrison "Anthem with dragons", so I wonder if Hudson was actually in support of turning DA into an MMO. Not trying to find someone to blame for everything, but I'll just forever wonder if things would've been different with someone else at the top." Mark Darrah: "I don’t think he was. Simply living in the same environment we all were"

User: "What was your relationship with the higher-ups and your team like for the remainder of your time at Bioware?" Mark Darrah: ""Doing a job" probably describes my last 2-3 years"

User: "I hope there is smooth sailing for ME5 and the story will knock our socks off." Mark Darrah: "I am following Mass Effect for sure"

Mark Darrah: "Origin [Systems] was actually under the BioWare umbrella at one point if you can believe it"

Mark Darrah: "Ray [one of the BioWare co-founders] spent a lot of his capital resisting EA until he left."

User: "If Joplin and the DA team had gotten the manpower from the Montreal team and resources they required do you think Joplin could have avoided EA’s push toward live service? (Sorry for the double comment, issue with my connection for a second there)" Mark Darrah: "... Its hard to say. Those 2 things are honestly pretty tightly coupled"

User: "Did you talk to Casey about the Anthem situation? It seems like he just pushed Anthem without discussing it internally which is so strange to do" Mark Darrah: "There were conversations. Casey can be very convincing"

User: "I think they damaged the relationship with their consumers as well" Mark Darrah: "In 2017? Definitely stopping the MEA dlc didn’t help"

User: "Have you considered writing an unauthorized history of Bioware, Mark?" Mark Darrah: "I’ve thought about a book. Not sure if there is one in there…"

User: "my trust in Nexteffect is very low just like it's for Bioware overall nowadays, but I won't judge before the game is out." Mark Darrah: "Keep following the game. Hopefully it will be great"

Mark Darrah: "EA doesn't sell IP"

User: "It's always so weird to hear the two teams at BW were kinda against each other" Mark Darrah: "Its weird how much the teams saw the differences as opposed to the similarities"

Mark Darrah: "I’m not sure that a large corporation can NOT assimilate an acquisition. Even if it tries"

User: "I have zero expectations for the next Mass Effect game" Mark Darrah: "There is still blood left in that stone"

Mark Darrah: "DA2’s budget is pretty small"

Mark Darrah: "We are starting to see a pivot back but basically the math is: 1. A successful live service makes WAY more than a successful SP game. 2. So much more that even if only 30% of our bets work we are still better off. BUT. 30% of their bets have NOT worked. Its way lower than that"

User: "The year BioWare started being finally digested by EA." Mark Darrah: "Finished I'd say"

User: "Do you feel like the "little to gain, little to lose" attitude from EA happened with The Veilguard as well?" Mark Darrah: "It isn't the same situation I don't think"

User: "How close were we to just getting any Dragon Age release, ever? Do you think the 10 year wait between releases damaged marketability?" Mark Darrah: "Do you mean how close was Joplin to happening? Not very close. It never even entered true pre-production" User: "regarding Anthem’s live service status… were people moved from Austin (The Old Republic) to help with that? Because it would greatly explain the content drought in the game at the time." Mark Darrah: "A ton of Austin people were on Anthem and Anthem Live. Not sure if they were pulled off of SWTOR though"

User: "I don't think EA understand video game development..." Mark Darrah: "They understand very specific kinds of development"

User: "if I were at BioWare, I would have had no trust in EA to keep their word after they agreed to let Dragon Age become single player again in 2021." Mark Darrah: "different people in different chairs but yeah"

Mark Darrah: "Yeah I don’t think anyone was malicious"

User: "do I understand correctly then that actual work on what eventually became The Veilguard started in 2019, after Anthem?" Mark Darrah: "There are very thin threads that trail all the way back to 2015 but most work happened after 2019. REALLY most happened after 2021 when it went back to SP."

User: "It seems like the Dragon Age team and Mass Effect teams have resentment towards each other, but I rarely hear from Hudson discussing this. It’s mostly the Dragon Age team." Mark Darrah: "I think we all have different stances for sure"

User: "I'm sure they don't appreciate you telling the full truth." Mark Darrah: "There’s much more to it then this"

Mark Darrah: "That Anthem pitch was so good it lasted 7 years of Casey being gone"

User: "Execs lying to you numerous times, then lying to the Dragon Age staff about the nature of their relocation, only to have them crunch on Anthem, is horrendous." Mark Darrah: "I don’t think they were lying to me at the time. It just became untrue"

[source]

[arliganzey]

Day 5 Prompt: Brothers for @deltasquadweek (HA remembered to tag before posting this time...)

Title: My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, and Me Rating/Warnings: T (because of Scorch's reading choice) Word Count: 1.8k Special Guest Appearances: Aleena (mentioned), a mouse droid Summary: Three vignettes about Scorch and his brothers.

Read it on AO3

“Who do you think changes that light bulb?”

Scorch didn’t need to point out the flashing light on the building across the skylane. It was blinding, even from where Fixer was inside. Each flash made Scorch’s scope auto-adjust for the brightness, and it happened at an infrequent enough interval that the scope would normalize for about four seconds only for the light to flash again. Scorch reckoned it was eighteen seconds.

“What do you mean, who?” Fixer said. “Probably a droid.”

“Yeah. Probably.” Scorch was quiet until the light flashed again. “But who calls the droid when the light needs changing?”

Fixer put a broken slicer into his belt and stared at the cursor blinking on the console in front of him. Scorch was wedged into an uncomfortable position somewhere on the roof and likely needed the distraction. “Maybe you should call it in.”

“I’ve got the building manager’s comms.”

“And his home address.”


Scorch snorted. “I’ll send him a message via courier.”

“That should do.” Fixer rebooted the console so his program could take over and start copying, dumping, and rewriting the data. “It’s not that urgent.”

Scorch tried to wiggle his toes. His legs fell asleep. “I think my next job will be ‘guy who changes the lightbulbs on top of skyscrapers.’”

“Yeah? Think that would be exciting, do you?”

“Maybe the benefits would be good.”

“You wouldn’t last a week before you got bored.”

“You think you could do better?”

Fixer scoffed as he pulled the datachip out of the console and packed up his toolkit. “I don’t want to change lightbulbs.”

“What’s your dream job?”

A blip appeared on Fixer’s HUD. He reeled back against the wall, rifle in hand, as the door opened. Fixer aimed, ready to shoot to kill whatever walked through the door. Nothing happened—half a second passed, and a mouse droid rolled in.

“It’s a mouse droid,” Scorch announced, much too late with his assessment. Fixer sighed heavily into the comms.

“I could be a janitor, I guess.” Fixer watched the droid, scanning it for any recording devices. Satisfied it hadn’t noticed him, he slipped out the door and started heading back toward the stairs to get to the roof. “Hack into unattended consoles on my lunch break.”

Scorch hummed, watching Fixer’s position change on the map. “Looking for what?”

“I don’t know,” Fixer grumbled, already sounding winded on the stairs, his patience for the conversation eroding.

“You’d do some hacking just for the love of the game,” Scorch concluded.

“Yeah.” Fixer kept going, his legs protesting with every floor. “The love of the game.”

A few moments of blissful silence passed until Scorch said: “You’d have to clean ‘freshers. Toilets and everything.”

“So?”

“I wouldn’t want to do that.”

Fixer snorted. “That’s all right. You’re the light bulb guy, anyway.”

The roof was somewhat obscured from view by other, taller buildings by a water tank, under which Scorch had stowed himself while Fixer went inside.

The light flashed again.

“Need a hand?” Fixer asked when Scorch didn’t immediately get up.

“Legs are asleep,” Scorch grumbled, sticking out his hand. Fixer hauled him out, katarn armor scraping across permacrete. Scorch got to his feet and looked down at his chestplate. “That’ll mess up a paint job… This is why I’d rather be out in the field.”

Fixer put a hand on Scorch’s shoulder to keep him steady on wobbly legs. “No love for Triple Zero?”

“Nah. Did you get what we came for?”

“That and more. Someone should tell our friends in urban planning to keep better tabs on this sector’s building codes.”

“They didn’t think you’d come knocking on the door looking for intel.”

Fixer actually smiled and Scorch could hear it in his voice. “No, they didn’t.”

===

“Sev,” Scorch whispered. “Are you awake?”

There was a long pause. Scorch stared at the ceiling, only a few inches away from his face where he lay on the top bunk above Fixer.

“No,” Sev grumbled.

“Okay.”

The silence felt like static. Sev rustled, turning onto his side. “What?”

“Remember that Twi’lek server on Dorumaa?”

“Yeah.” Another long pause. Sev wasn’t sure why Scorch hesitated to talk again, he usually talked his ear off while Boss and Fixer snored below. “What about her?”

“I have her com.”

Now Sev was intrigued. “No way in haran you have her com.”

“But I do.”

“Okay… call her right now.”

“No way.”

“Then you’re a lying chakaar.”

“I am not, I really have her com, and we have been sending each other messages.”

Sev held out his hand. “Show me.”

Scorch groaned, but then he reached across the bunk bends and put his datapad in Sev’s hand. He watched as the green glow lit up Sev’s face. “What is this?”

“What is what?”

Sev silently turned the datapad around to reveal the last thing on Scorch’s screen, which was a panel from a holocomic with a buxom woman in some sort of tied up prisoner situation.

“It’s called art. Just go to my messages, di’kut.”

Like any good brother would do, Sev found Scorch’s messages and decided to glance at all of them. Scorch had recent messages with each of the squad, of course, and Darman (?), and then an Aleena.

Sev started reading the Aleena conversation. It was painfully boring. There were several iterations of hi, how are you? Good, and you? Alive. That’s good to hear. How’s the weather where you are? Good. Rainy.

“You sent her a meme about having a bad boss.”

“Uh-huh.”

“This is so boring and stupid I can’t even accuse you of fabricating it.”

“Yeah. I’m exchanging messages with a real person.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” Sev reached out to hand the datapad back, “she just messages you out of pity?”

“Why pity? I haven’t told her I’m a soldier.” Scorch took the datapad and stuffed it under his pillow.

“You think she doesn’t suspect we’re all clones?”

“Why would she? She’s never seen a clone before. And Jusik told us we look like brothers when we’re out of uniform.”

“So who does she think you are?”

“I haven’t really told her anything. She probably thinks I’m some mercenary named Scorch, I guess.”

“Huh.” The thought of having a conversation with someone outside of the squad and the army was already a bit jarring. Adding on the fact that she doesn’t even know Scorch is a clone commando made it so Sev couldn’t imagine what he’d have to say. All he knew was the army and being a commando. But Scorch could be… anything to Aleena.

Scorch was suspiciously silent.

“Do you want to tell her?” Sev asked carefully.

“That I’m a clone commando stuck in the GAR until I die? No. I want to…” Scorch trailed off and sighed. He already started this with Sev, so he might as well say it. “Ask her more questions. Get to know her better. Not for any reason. Just… because she agreed to give me her com, and hasn’t blocked me.”

Sev made a hm sound that was neither judgmental nor agreeable.

“I’m going to ask her what her favorite color is,” Scorch announced.

“Okay.”

“What… is… your… favorite… color… And sent.”

“Would you two shut up?” murmured Fixer from below.

“Go to sleep,” Sev said.

A few minutes later, Scorch whispered: “Yellow.”

And Sev knew Scorch probably replied with: my favorite color is yellow too. :)

===

“Again, Scorch? Really?”

From the mirror’s reflection, Scorch saw Boss leaning against the ‘fresher door with his arms folded, clad in red fatigues and freshly shaven, ready to go to bed.

“You can’t boss me around during off hours.” Scorch went back to slathering white paste onto his hair.

“Put some gloves on.”

Scorch rolled his eyes and kept applying the bleach.

Boss came into the ‘fresher and found some gloves, then he walked up behind Scorch and held out his hand. “You missed a whole section in the back. Let me do it.”

The glare Scorch fixed on him didn’t falter as he handed over the bowl. Rumor had it a few of the ARC troopers got a hold of an applicator for bleach and hair dye, but Scorch had never seen it, so he always used his hands. He bleached all of his hair anyway, it wasn’t like he needed to do anything fancy. He’d let the roots grow out until all the orange-ish blonde was sheared away during Delta’s very infrequent visits to the hygiene droids. He’d been totally natural for about a month now, and his usual cycle of natural-‘all blonde’-‘grown out roots’ was ready to repeat itself.

Boss took a small scoop of white paste and patted it into the darker roots Scorch missed, then he moved some heavily applied paste around to try and even it out. “You want the sides too?”

“No. It’s okay. It’s too short.”

“Okay.”

The chemical smell in the ‘fresher was terrible. Boss felt a headache coming on. But he kept applying the paste until Scorch’s head was saturated. “You should rinse it out after thirty minutes,” he said, because he’s been down this road before with Scorch.

“Fifty.”

“It’s going to feel like straw.”

“I put oil in it this time, no it won’t.”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Fifty.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Fifty.”

“Thirty-five or you’ll lose a layer of hair in your helmet again.”

“… Forty-five.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Listen.” Scorch turned and leaned back on the sink, folding his arms. “It’s already been fifteen and the front is still brown. Forty-five, or it’s not even worth it.”

Boss looked and confirmed that Scorch’s hair was still rather reddish brown. “Fine. Forty-five. Did you get that thing the 501st was talking about?”

“The toner? No.”

“Toner,” Boss repeated under his breath.

Scorch shrugged. “I’ve never used it, why bother with it now?”

Boss removed the gloves and threw them in the incinerator. Then he left the ‘fresher without another word.

Scorch looked in the mirror again, examining Boss’s work. He did fine.

There were a lot of clones who thought dyeing their hair was a waste of time and effort. Really, they wore helmets most of the time. But the clones that kept doing dyeing their hair, like him, found it too addicting to stop. Having the ability to change his appearance felt like breaking the rules. And even his brothers in Delta painted their armor not with a singular squad theme, but their own individual colors.

Scorch brushed a hand over his jaw. He already looked different from every other clone, burn scars and skin grafts etching the side of his face. But he liked being blonde—even if he wasn’t a clone, he reockened he’d still bleach his hair. Or pay someone to do it.

Soon Boss reappeared in the ‘fresher with a bottle in hand. “Toner.” He tossed it to Scorch.

Scorch caught it. The bottle was unmarked and full of a purple liquid, clearly someone poured from the store bought bottle into this separate container. “Okay?”

“He said after you rinse out the bleach, put that on, and leave it until the orange is gone. The longer you leave it, the whiter your hair will get.”

Turning fully to Boss, Scorch stared at him.

“What?” said Boss.

“Thank you.”

Boss nodded. He lingered in the doorway. “Want me to help with the back again?”

“Yeah… Thanks, vod.”

[arcatopia]

So how do you feel about AI in fanfiction?

I was following a quite long Snirius WIP on Ao3 when I noticed that the writer had insane volumes of text posted in very little time.

At first I asked them about it—did you write your story in advance? They said yes they did. But I wasn’t convinced because there were other lengthy pieces in their works that added up to over a million words posted over the last 9 months.

So I ran several of their works through an AI detector, and it turned out positive every time. I then made a comment explaining that I loved the story, but knowing it was written with AI made me feel conflicted about pursuing my reading. It was polite and even pretty nice. I still deleted it because it felt like I was publicly shaming the writer with no absolute proof and I did not want that.

However the writer posted a new chapter today and made a note confirming the AI allegations. Here’s part of the note:

I write to escape, to explore, to survive the real world with a bit of twisted magic. I don’t profit from it. I’m not publishing it. I’m just here to create. Key word: here. For fun. 🎭✨

Unfortunately, lately that joy’s been chipped away by comments—mostly anonymous—focused not on the story but on how I write. Specifically, about AI 🤖. About “suspicion.” About whether I’m “real.” One person even ran chapters through an AI detector and claimed that somehow made me less of a writer. (They later deleted the comment. But I saw it.)

So here is my response to it as the writer said they would delete further comments about them writing with AI:

I deleted my comment so as not to publicly accuse you, because there are no DMs on Ao3 and I didn’t want to ruin the fun for other people. I think my comment was polite and simply expressed my conflicted feelings about reading your story.

You may think AI is just a tool, but it’s a tool that feeds on other people’s work without their consent (my own work was stolen as part of the recent Ao3 data scraping), a tool that makes many people lose their jobs (including mine, I’m a translator), a tool that has an important environmental impact. So it’s about ethics and I’d say, political views.

I don’t like how you’re twisting my deleted comment into something shameful—I ran your text through an AI detector because you were not transparent about using AI and it pained me to see the results, really. I did not harass you or insult you, I have nothing to be ashamed of.

I’m a writer too. I get stuck constantly. I kinda get the appeal of not having to deal with this painful part of the process. However I feel you lose an important part of the creative process when you do not go through it.

[lotusfish]

the swamp monster |pt.1| r.itoshi

a/n : hello everynyan! ive been so deep in blk brainrot lately and ive been reading so many ffs on here and drafted one up myself... ive been bored so thought why not post my own. please excuse the bad grammar as english isnt my first language and i dont think my writing is that great. however if you do decide to read this, thank you!

ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP! READER USES FEMININE PRONOUNS!

3K WORDS!

NOT PROOFREAD... ;(

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Congratulations! You’ve been accepted as our newest team member of Blue Lock, the leading team of Science and Technology. Please confirm your details below… 

“Huh…?” 

Squinting your eyes as you leaned closer to the bright computer screen, it didn’t help that you were also sitting in complete darkness. “-I was, uh, accepted?” Your voice came out more as confusion than disbelief. “What? Did you even get a job interview with them?” Your friend’s muffled voice spoke through the phone speaker, her tone rather skeptical. 

“No,” You huffed under your breath as you repeatedly pressed the ‘refresh’ button on the keyboard. ‘Maybe it was some sort of accident? But why would they use my name?’ The thoughts swirled in your mind as the blank page loaded back up the unmistakably addressed “in your full government name” email. 

“I guess I’m now, uh, employed?”

-

You, a once brilliant student that had excelled in every task you did. The pride and joy of your parents, you worked so hard for their attention since birth. Every positive report card, a smile and hug.

 “Honey, we're so proud of you!” 

Every gold medal and award, more praises and head ruffles. 

“You are our pride and joy.”

Toothy grins, loving friends, scraped knees, ambition, sunshine, fresh grass, rain, thunderstorms, heavy, tired, tired, tired. 

A young star who shone too brightly had burnt out, crashing hard and fast into reality. 

Everything began to feel meaningless as you moved slowly through the thick of it all, your youth was supposed to be the best part of your life yet all you felt like a puppet lead on strings. Dancing till your feet bled, entertaining the masses.

By the time you finished high school, you had remembered the looks your parents had given you as they circled around you like a pack of hungry hyenas. Starved for more, when did it stop being your life and became theirs? You had told them that you wanted to take on some part-time work rather than head straight into university when reality was that you wanted to slowly disappear between the slips of time, becoming nothing. Maybe then people won’t have such high expectations of you or maybe you were just a waste of space like what your parents had said.

“Miss, we’re here.” The voice of the taxi driver had snapped you back into reality, losing your train of thoughts. You thanked him as you handed over the cash, unbuckling the overly-tight seatbelt and stepping out of the vehicle. The salty air of the ocean hit you almost instantly as you looked up at the large building standing tall in front of you. Using one arm to shield your eyes from the bright sun rays as you read the large letters across the building. ‘The State of Science: BLUE LOCK’.

God knows how you landed this job, without any experience nor interview. But the strange man on the phone assured you that you would be the perfect fit for this job as he had looked into your background (creep?!) and gathered some personal data of yours (is this a crime?).

After much persuasion from your friend, jokingly calling you a NEET and saying you spend way too much time inside and that you have nothing to lose if you went. If you didn’t like the job then you could always quit, right?

“Right.” You mutter softly as you nervously fiddled with the strap of your bag, heavy from all your personal belongings. The man on the phone had requested you to bring some with you as a part of the job required you to stay over in the facilities for a couple of nights. Whatever it was.

Stepping through the automatic glass doors, you are immediately greeted by security guards. Handing over your bag as you stiffly hold out your arms, letting the guard give you a thural pat down. It wasn’t too surprising that they had such tight security measures as Blue Lock has become one of the leading science research departments across the world. 

What had caught you off guard was the over fifty page NDA booklet placed in front of you as you were led into the next room. The woman, Anri, she introduced herself as, guided you through the process. ‘Anri is so lovely’, you thought as she showed you to your room in the facility after all the paperwork. By the looks of it, you two seemed around similar ages too. Maybe this whole thing isn’t so bad.

“Once you’re done unpacking, I’ll take you to Ego. He will show you what you will be doing.” Anri cheerfully explained as she flickered through the papers in her clipboard. You smiled reluctantly as the name Ego reached your ears. 

 The man, though you hadn’t even met him in person, already left a sour impression after the hour long phone calls and exchanged emails with him. He’s thoroughly convinced that you would be the perfect candidate for this ‘role’, whatever it is and he certainly made it very clear with the bombardment of texts when you accidentally missed another call.

“I think I’m ready.” You said as you placed your bag down by the foot of the bed, un-packing can come later, you thought. The nerves of this unknown job was killing you, maybe mixed in with a bit of excitement too. It had been awhile since you properly interacted with people other than your close friends.

 “Follow me.” Anri’s voice was already fading down the hall, you had to jog a little to catch up with the quick-paced woman. 

-

It seemed to take forever before the both of you reached a pristine white metal door. You felt a bead of sweat trickle down the side of your face. Before this, you were led by Anri through one elevator going down by almost 50 levels? You had lost count when you were then taken through a long hallway, followed by twists and turns before landing in front of another elevator; going down again. 

It almost felt illegal for you to even breathe in this building, what kind of sci-fi movie did you just land in? You casted a quick nervous glance at Anri beside you, who looked as relaxed as ever. A small smile resting on her lips as she pressed a thumb onto the keypad beside the large door.

The loud ‘DING’ that followed almost made you jump out of your skin as the door slid open smoothly. “C’mon, you’re gonna love this!’’ Anri assured as she walked in, casting you an expecting look.

If your jaw could hit the floor, it would have. As you stepped into the large room you were met with large monitors, tables scattered with papers, tubes and beakers. There were a few small tanks and cages filled with strange critters that you couldn’t name even if a gun was held to your head. What really caught your attention was behind all the scientific madness, leading up a small step of stairs to a viewing platform. The whole back wall was replaced by thick glass. The water behind the glass was murky, it wasn’t blue like the tanks of water you saw at the aquariums when you were little. The lights beneath the tank casted the whole room a deep forest shade of green, just like the water. You could see shadows of fishes swimming around in there yet through the algae floating around and tall plants threading through the waters peacefully, it was hard to tell what they were. The scene in front of you unknowingly filled you with tranquility, the jumping nerves you felt just mere seconds ago lost among the slow moving waters.

“Pretty neat, isn’t it?” The sudden booming voice definitely made you jump (and yelp, a little) as a shadow casted over your face, looking up you see a tall slender silhouette of a man as he stood proudly in front of the tank. “Ah, Ego this is-” Anri was abruptly cut off by a slim finger pushed to her face as the tall man took mere seconds to get down the steps, with long strides. Stopping right in front of you. “Shut up Anri, I know who she is.” The man spat, now that he was closer you could actually make out his facial features in the dark room. His large beady black eyes hid behind a pair of thick black framed glasses, yet they couldn’t hide his lack of sleep with the heavy eyebags beneath his stare. His face was pulled into a large almost comical frown as he stared down at you. “Welcome fresh meat.” He finally said after seemingly analysing you on the spot. 

“Um, thank you?” You raised a brow at the strange nickname but still responded. Without wasting a second, the man turned on his heels. “Follow.” He ordered as he made his way through the tables to the side of the room, with a sweep of a card, a small side door that you would’ve never noticed opened. You quickly followed after him, looking back at Anri to see if she was following but she was already head deep in reading something on her Ipad. You felt your heart speeding up a little again because of the jumping nerves as you followed Ego up a narrow set of stairs. 

Through pushing open the metal slab at the very top of stairs, almost like opening the small space leading to a dusty attic. You were met with an open room, roof and walls lined with heavy set silver bars. You stepped out on the platform, behind the tall man. 

“Woah.” A small gasp left your lips as you set your eyes on the scene in front of you. The stairs led the both of you to the very top of the large tank. Growths of lily pads and other types of aquatic plants scattered across the surface of the waters. A large tree stretched out from within the bog, you definitely wouldn't have noticed it from looking below the murky waters. If it weren’t for the strange metal cage bars this tank was encased in, you would have thought this place was painted straight from a medieval fairy tail.

“Well this place is still a bit of a work in progress, we’re trying to make it more homely.” Ego started, turning to look at you. “From today, you will be taking care of this place and the owner of this home.” He stated simply, gesturing to the swamp of water.

You furrowed your browns in confusion, “The owner? Of which home?” You asked, only to receive a large grin in response from Ego. “You will meet Rin soon enough, he’s a bit shy. He only really comes out at night but you don’t need to worry too much. As long as you do your job, everything will be fine.”

“Is Rin one of those creatures? Like from below in those tanks?” You ask, more confused at the explanation. Ego casted you a strange look before smirking again, “Yep. Something like that.”

-

You tugged at your new uniform, checking your reflection in the mirror. A plain set of white overalls, the BlueLock logo etched into the right breast pocket. You wore your striped long sleeve shirt underneath as well as your slightly worn down DocMartins. It didn’t look half bad! It was simple but you felt comfortable enough. 

The door to the locker room pushed open behind you causing you to turn, a freckled face peaked in. “Ah hello you must be new as well!” The young man spoke politely with a smile, he was wearing the same uniform as you. Ginger hair peaked out from beneath the matching white cap he was wearing. “Yes I am.” You introduced yourself, extending a hand to shake. 

“I’m Regan. Just started today as well. Anri told me to meet you here.” He said, grabbing your hand. “We should head there soon, ya nervous?” Regan grinned as he fixed his cap in the mirror. “A little, not gonna lie. The whole thing has been a little bit of a mystery to me.” You responded and Regan chuckled as he nodded. “Right? I still don’t really know what we have to do exactly but I’m glad I have you so we can figure this out together.” He gave your shoulder a little playful nudge and you laughed a little. This guy might be a little overly-friendly but you were also glad you have someone else to work with during this night shift. 

- 

 “Ugh this stuff stinks.” Regan muffled through his palm pressed to his face as he picked up the bucket filled with slush. “I know, let’s hurry.” You huffed back, covering your own nose as you picked up a bucket. Looking down, the content of the bucket looked to be a mixture of dead fish and other sorts of mystery meats? You gagged internally. The instruction left by Ego was to take the feed to this RIN creature. Simple enough, right?

The two of you made your way through the maze of a building (might have gotten lost a few times), finally found your way back to the big tank. 

“This place is so dope, man.” Regan said as he picked up a test tube from one of the desks, bringing it up to his face. You casted him a quick glance before scanning the keycard like the way you saw Ego did. The small door unlocked and slid open. Bless Regan, he seemed like a great guy, but from the past half an hour of knowing him. He’s almost talked your ears off. You suppose knowing about Regan’s whole bloodline and his family drama instead of your own inner monologue filling the silence was better in the seemingly empty building. 

“C’mon Regan.” You called out as you began climbing up the staircase with the bucket, careful not to disturb it too much with your movements. You’d rather not deal with that stench clinging to you for the rest of the evening. “Coming!” Regan’s loud voice echoed behind you, followed by his footsteps clanking against the metal staircase.

Finding your way back to the top of the tank, you set the bucket down. Despite the smelly bucket next to you, the large room smelt of fresh grassy woodland. It was hard to describe, slightly earthy? Was there also a hint of floral from the blooming lilies? The plants of the man-made swamp really made up for the dull exterior. 

‘ Flomp! ’ 

You watched as Regan poured the slimy content of his bucket into the water, the wet sounds reaching your ears making you scowl in disgust. Regan caught your gaze and frowned, “What? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? Feed this Ren thing?” He huffed, taking a step closer to the edge of the platform before getting on his knees and peering into the dark water. “What is this thing anyways, have you even seen it yet?” Regan’s contorted face asked from the reflection of the rippling waters.

You frowned, taking a step towards the ginger. “No I have not and I wouldn’t get so close. Ego said not to-” You were cut off by the man sticking his whole arm into the water, swishing it around. “Do that…” You deadpanned. 

“It’s fine.” Regan rolled his eyes, “It’s probably a small sort of small extinct fish that they are trying to keep-” It happened so fast, a long muscular pair of arms reached out from beneath Regan and dragged the man by the collar of his shirt and into the murky water. It took you a few seconds to process what you had just witnessed before you screeched out Regan’s name, rushing to the edge of the platform. The waters were still for a moment before Regan’s pale arms splashed about the surface, his freckled face emerging for a moment as he spat out a mouthful of water. His panicked eyes met yours, “Can’t- SWIM!” He gasped, before disappearing below again.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

The alarms in your head were going haywire, should you call Ego? Anri? What should you do?

Stupid fucking Regan.

You took in a deep breath before leaping off the edge, the cold water hit your warm skin like a slap. You dove deeper beneath the waters, looking for the familiar head of red. Yet it was so hard to see through the swirls of green, everything was dark and shadowy. You fought hard to keep your eyes open as you pushed yourself further into the tank with your arms, looking around frantically.

From the corner of your eye you finally caught a glimpse of pale skin through the shadowy water, without hesitation you reached out and grabbed the arm. Pulling hard as you kicked your legs, turning to pull the both of you to the surface.

Yet as much as you kicked, you felt like you were going nowhere. 

‘Why is this bastard so damn heavy? ’ The thought crossed your mind as you turned your body to face him, hoping that using both of your arms might help a little more. 

You felt your whole body freeze as you finally met eyes with a pair of sharp emerald eyes. 

Those are not Regan’s eyes!

Though the water was murky, those cat-like eyes were clear as day. They almost seemed to glow against the dark as they stared deeply into your own wide terrified ones. Your grip on the creature’s arm never loosened, you couldn’t even answer yourself why. 

Maybe it was the shock? The creature, no, man? His face was the most ethereal thing you’ve ever laid eyes on, his pale lips were pressed in a thin line. His face was small, almost feminine like with the especially long eye-lashes that framed those beautiful emeralds that sat perfectly between his slim nose, his pupils were animalistic, sharp black slits watching your every move carfully. His inky hair blended into the waters, flowing gracefully around him.

Without thinking, your free hand slowly reached out towards the creature. Ever so carefully cupping his cheek. He had watched you the whole time, sharp eyes drifting from your face to your hand before looking back at you again. He didn’t respond in any way as he felt your warm touch, face remained blank as he observed your curious gaze.

Time seemed to stand still as the two of you shared this strangely intimate moment. All of your worries and thoughts disappeared at this moment, just nothing. Like what you had always hoped for, to just exist so simply. How could someone look like this? So hauntingly beautiful, you couldn’t breathe. What was this darkness? You had always had a fear of the dark, the unknown yet how could this feel so comforting? You couldn’t breathe. Everything was so quiet, you couldn’t feel the cold water nipping at your skin anymore.

Blackspots began appearing around your vision, you hadn’t even realised that you were running dangerously low on oxygen before you let out a gasp. Air bubbles clouded your vision, that gorgeous face disappearing among them.

No, I want to see you again!

Everything fades to black.

[tendermiasma]

Sorry if this is kinda a depressing question, but how do you find the will power to keep posting your art? Personally I'm struggling to be more confident in sharing my art in a world full of ai programs data scraping and being really scared of putting myself out there consistently, I don't understand how others manage to keep doing it. How did you overcome nervousness (if any) as a beginning artist? I keep scrapping blogs and remaking and burning out and then deleting again before I do it all over.

I'm sorry you're struggling with art, it's not fun. In my case I have this unfortunate disease that makes me think everyone needs to see every thought about my obsessions that passes through my brain and I've been that way forever. I have a lot of feelings about the things I love and this is how I communicate them. I'm as frustrated at AI as anyone else but sharing my art is just a really enjoyable part of my life and it's the remedy to things that upset me. I don't see a reason to cede ground to something inferior that will get destroyed in litigation anyway because nothing can be copyrighted. It's also kind of my job to be online because it's where a lot of networking happens; being prepared for financial disruption is a powerful motivator.

It sounds like you're getting a little bogged down in the blogmaking stage so I'd try not messing with UI or organization and just focusing on making and posting art for a while. The other stuff can be done later. From my experience in doing things that are intimidating, they'll never not be intimidating until you do it so you just have to push through for a bit. Also putting Glaze and Nightshade on your work help protect against AI scraping.