This has been my main argument against "AI" from the very beginning.
OpenAI scraped the entire web. All of which had been a labor of love from humans. Wikipedia is the backbone of a lot of LLMs, and that was volunteer human labor. They stole it and now they're selling it back to us.
And worse, they're trying to destroy the free sources that they stole from. It's destruction of human knowledge on an unprecedented scale. The burning of the library of Alexandria has nothing on this.
I'm doing thesis fieldwork rn and one of the people i'm here with decided to play some romani music on loudspeaker that admittedly has screaming and poor audio quality, (we're out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, bothering no one) so i was like believe it or not i have something worse. & when i tell you this grown man looked back at me with real terror in his eyes when the trumpet came on
Will noticed it a while ago, this 'habit' you had. Fingertips pressing into your palm. Nails dragging lightly across your wrist.
It didn't register as alarming at first, just⦠something he noticed.
And then... you had to take one of your dogs to the vet.
It was a harmless procedure but the vet always put you on edge.
The waiting room smells like antiseptic and stress, dogs whining softly in the background, and you're too still.
He watches the way your fingers curl in on themselves. The tension in your jaw. The way your breathing never quite settles.
He stays close, his knee brushing yours, his hand occasionally resting near yours.
"It won't take long." he reassures you.
When you've dropped your beloved dog off, you're back home, he expects the tension to ease at least a bit.
It doesn't. If anything, it spikes.
You're pacing a little around the house and your hands areΒ worse now.
Nails pressing deeper, harder.
Then he sees the blood.
It's not a lot. But the sight alone is enough.
"Hey," he says softly. It almost catches you off guard, breaking through whatever loop you're stuck in.
He steps closer slowly and takes your hand.
Your hand feels tense in his, he turns it slightly, inspecting the damage without making a face, no reaction that might make you feel worse.
"You're bleeding..." he murmurs, more to himself than you.
He guides you to sit down, not pushing, just a light pressure at your shoulder, a suggestion you follow quickly
He disappears briefly and comes back with a first aid kit
He comes to sit with you on the couch.
His hands are steady as he cleans the cuts.
He watches your face while he does it, not just your hands.
If your expression tightens, he adjusts immediately.
Slows down. Softens his touch.
"I know,.... just a second."
Once the cuts are clean, he carefully places bandaids over them, smoothing them down with his thumb.
His touch lingers.
Then, without thinking too much about it, he lifts your hand slightly and presses a soft kiss over the bandaged skin.
When he pulls back, he doesn't make a big deal of it.
He just keeps holding your hand, thumb brushing slow, repetitive circles across your skin.
Something for you to focus on instead.
Over time, he becomes more attuned to theΒ build-up.
Sometimes he just reaches for your hand before you even realise what you're doing.
Sometimes he passes you something to hold, resting his hand over yours, pressing your palm flat against the table with his covering it.
He never embarrasses you over it. Never calls attention to it in front of others.
He'll keep your hands occupied, letting you trace patterns on his arm, fidget with his sleeve, hook your fingers into his.
Sometimes, late at night, he'll take your hands again, inspecting them in the dim light.
β¦ ββββ DINING
hannibal lecter x autistic!reader
masterlist β taglist
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wc. 1k
premise.
based on this ask!
iβm so excited to hear autistic!reader and hannibal are getting multiple parts, i literally stimmed lol. i feel so seen. thank you. π
warnings.
none.
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The house was alive with people.
This was arguably your least favourite time of the week, Dinner Party Night.
You stood beside Hannibal near the entrance hall, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your sleeves for what must have been the twentieth time.
You had practiced.
You had spent nearly an hour deciding what to wear because Hannibal always looked immaculate, and you wanted people to look at the two of you and think you belonged together.
You wanted him to be proud.
His hand found the small of your back.
"You are tense," Hannibal observed quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
"I'm trying not to be," you admitted.
His thumb rubbed a slow circle against your waist, he turned toward you fully, shutting out the arriving guests for one fleeting moment.
"You owe no one a performance," Hannibal said gently.
"I know," you whispered. "But... they're your friends."
"They are my guests."
"They're important." you argued.
His expression softened.
"You," he corrected, "are important."
The warmth of his words settled somewhere inside you, but they did little to quiet the nervous buzzing beneath your skin.
For the first hour, you tried, you truly tried.
A woman with pearls asked about your hobbies.
You answered honestly.
"I enjoy categorising books in our library by publication date."
She blinked.
"Oh."
Silence.
You weren't sure whose turn it was to speak.
Eventually, she smiled politely before excusing herself to refill her wine.
Another guest began discussing opera.
You knew quite a lot about opera.
You talked for nearly ten minutes about funeral marches in nineteenth-century compositions, the symbolism of death in stage direction, and the historical evolution of requiem performances.
Halfway through, you noticed his eyes wandering toward someone else.
Had you said too much? Too little? You couldn't tell.
He thanked you awkwardly before drifting away.
Every conversation felt like being handed a script with half the pages missing.
Everyone else somehow knew when to laugh.
When to interrupt.
How long eye contact should last.
When a question required an honest answer and when it required something... prettier.
You never seemed to know.
By the time dinner was served, your chest felt tight.
The dining room buzzed with conversation.
You couldn't find a place to fit.
So you stopped trying.
Quietly, you slipped away from the crowd.
There was a small armchair, your favourite one to be clear, just beyond the library.
You sat there, folding your hands together.
You ounted the raindrops racing down the glass.
One.
Two.
Three.
The numbers made considerably more sense than people.
You stared outside, trying very hard not to cry.
Not because anyone had been cruel.
Nobody had.
They had all been perfectly polite.
You had wanted tonight to go well.
You had wanted Hannibal to look across the room and think...
That's my darling.
They're extraordinary.
Instead...
You couldn't even figure out how to have a conversation.
You hadn't heard the approaching footsteps, you only noticed them when someone stopped beside your chair.
"You've disappeared," Hannibal said gently, his voice carrying no accusation, only quiet concern.
You looked up at him.
His expression was as composed as ever, but his eyes had softened the moment they found yours.
He crouched beside your chair rather than standing over you, bringing himself to your level.
"Is everything all right?" he asked softly. "Do you require anything?"
"I'm fine," you answered quietly.
He studied your face for a long moment.
"You may tell me," he said, his tone as gentle as the rain against the glass.
Your fingers twisted together tightly.
"I think..." you began hesitantly, searching for words that never seemed to come as easily as everyone else's. "I think I'll just sit here for a little while."
Hannibal nodded
"I'm sorry," you whispered after a moment.
His brow furrowed ever so slightly, "What are you apologising for?"
"I don't know how..." You paused, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "I don't know how to talk to them."
"I wanted to. I really wanted to make you proud."
Hannibal reached for your hands, gently untangling your fingers before enclosing them within his own.
"My dear," he said warmly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, "you were doing wonderfully."
You blinked, "I was?"
"Yes," he answered without hesitation.
"I kept saying the wrong things."
"There are no wrong things," Hannibal replied calmly.
You frowned slightly, "They stopped talking to me."
"They exhausted their own ability to contribute," he corrected with quiet certainty.
Despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips.
Hannibal smiled in return.
"I watched you this evening," he admitted. "You made an effort because you knew it mattered to me... I know how difficult that was for you. I saw every conversation you began."
He lifted one of your hands and pressed a lingering kiss against your fingers, "I also saw your courage."
"You should not measure your success by whether strangers understand you," Hannibal continued gently. "Measure it by the fact that you tried despite your discomfort."
"I am immensely proud of you." He smiled ever so slightly.
"And," he added, "I would be delighted to hear everything you know about nineteenth-century opera."
"I suspect," Hannibal said thoughtfully, "that your observations are considerably more interesting than those of my guests."
"They might become rather detailed."
"I should hope so."
"They could last an hour."
"I shall consider myself fortunate."
You shook your head, a genuine smile spreading across your face now, "You really don't mind?"
"My love," Hannibal said tenderly, reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "there are very few things I enjoy more than listening to you speak about something you love."
The ache that had settled inside your chest all evening began to loosen.
Because the one person whose opinion truly mattered had never wanted you to be anyone other than yourself.
You leaned forward, your lips met his in a gentle, lingering kiss.
When you pulled away, Hannibal rested his forehead lightly against yours.
You smiled, your heart feeling lighter than it had all evening.
i had a lovely afternoon Apollon while i took care of some chores around the house. it started when i was awestruck by the way His light draped across my clover front yard and the dark wood of my kitchen table. i see Helios as the sun incarnateβ He is the star in which we orbit and He holds our solar system together, He is the ultimate source of light and life in our solar systemβ but i do see Apollon in the sunlight as it enters our atmosphere. He covered the afternoon landscape in such a brilliant orange that it demanded an offering.
i poured a water libation in the yard and spoke words of praise to Apollon. when i came inside, i was met with a ray of light perfectly illuminating a dedicated offering surface and His presence was thick in the air. i left two plums there for Apollon in His light for Him to enjoy. i did the dishes and alternated between singing to Him and sitting in pleasant silence, the only other noise being the running water. in both song and silence i was mindful of my breathing, of my posture, of the birds outside and the smells from inside, of my mental and sensory sensations. eventually the plums were no longer drenched in light and under Apollonβs care, so i ate them for myself. as i did so i stared out the window, watching the setting sun. i thought about how these fruits were brought up by Apollon and Helios, and how i was too, and how i am connected to not just these plums but all living things in this way. i am not separate from all other things that derive life from the Sun. no matter the differences, we are all siblings under the Sun.
as the juice of the plum dripped down my chin, i imagined it represented the abundance and richness life has to offer and the sweetness that is in store. the comfort of song, light, creation, and the cultivation of things that nourishβ the comfort of Apollon. it was good to spend the afternoon with Him. i always try to be receptive to what He has to teach me or remind me of in a given moment. today, it was an invitation to be mindful during something as mundane as chores, and a reminder of the interconnectedness of all things through Zeus-Helios and Apollon, revealed in something as simple as a plum offering.
gummygunk
annaxmalina
kaledo-art
discoholicmusic
areudirty
romaincrisis
titsay
