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mariacallous · 8 months ago

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The first thing to say about the hate and scorn currently directed at the mainstream US media is that they worked hard to earn it. They’ve done so by failing, repeatedly, determinedly, spectacularly to do their job, which is to maintain their independence, inform the electorate, and speak truth to power. While the left has long had reasons to dismiss centrist media, and the right has loathed it most when it did do its job well, the moderates who are furious at it now seem to be something new – and a host of former editors, media experts and independent journalists have been going after them hard this summer.

Longtime journalist James Fallows declares that three institutions – the Republican party, the supreme court, and the mainstream political press – “have catastrophically failed to ‘meet the moment’ under pressure of [the] Trump era”. Centrist political reformer and columnist Norm Ornstein states that these news institutions “have had no reflection, no willingness to think through how irresponsible and reckless so much of our mainstream press and so many of our journalists have been and continue to be”.

Most voters, he says, “have no clue what a second Trump term would actually be like. Instead, we get the same insipid focus on the horse race and the polls, while normalizing abnormal behavior and treating this like a typical presidential election, not one that is an existential threat to democracy.”

Lamenting the state of the media recently on X, Jeff Jarvis, another former editor and newspaper columnist, said: “What ‘press’? The broken and vindictive Times? The newly Murdochian Post? Hedge-fund newspaper husks? Rudderless CNN or NPR? Murdoch’s fascist media?”

These critics are responding to how the behemoths of the industry seem intent on bending the facts to fit their frameworks and agendas. In pursuit of clickbait content centered on conflicts and personalities, they follow each other into informational stampedes and confirmation bubbles.

They pursue the appearance of fairness and balance by treating the true and the false, the normal and the outrageous, as equally valid and by normalizing Republicans, especially Donald Trump, whose gibberish gets translated into English and whose past crimes and present-day lies and threats get glossed over. They neglect, again and again, important stories with real consequences. This is not entirely new – in a scathing analysis of 2016 election coverage, the Columbia Journalism Review noted that “in just six days, The New York Times ran as many cover stories about Hillary Clinton’s emails as they did about all policy issues combined in the 69 days leading up to the election” – but it’s gotten worse, and a lot of insiders have gotten sick of it.

In July, ordinary people on social media decided to share information about the rightwing Project 2025 and did a superb job of raising public awareness about it, while the press obsessed about Joe Biden’s age and health. NBC did report on this grassroots education effort, but did so using the “both sides are equally valid” framework often deployed by mainstream media, saying the agenda is “championed by some creators as a guide to less government oversight and slammed by others as a road map to an authoritarian takeover of America”. There is no valid case it brings less government oversight.

In an even more outrageous case, the New York Times ran a story comparing the Democratic and Republican plans to increase the housing supply – which treated Trump’s plans for mass deportation of undocumented immigrants as just another housing-supply strategy that might work or might not. (That it would create massive human rights violations and likely lead to huge civil disturbances was one overlooked factor, though the fact that some of these immigrants are key to the building trades was mentioned.)

Other stories of pressing concern are either picked up and dropped or just neglected overall, as with Trump’s threats to dismantle a huge portion of the climate legislation that is both the Biden administration’s signal achievement and crucial for the fate of the planet. The Washington Post editorial board did offer this risibly feeble critique on 17 August: “It would no doubt be better for the climate if the US president acknowledged the reality of global warming – rather than calling it a scam, as Mr Trump has.”

While the press blamed Biden for failing to communicate his achievements, which is part of his job, it’s their whole job to do so. The Climate Jobs National Resource Center reports that the Inflation Reduction Act has created “a combined potential of over $2tn in investment, 1,091,966 megawatts of clean power, and approximately 3,947,670 jobs”, but few Americans have any sense of what the bill has achieved or even that the economy is by many measures strong.

Last winter, the New York Times columnist Paul Krugman, who has a Nobel prize in economics, told Greg Sargent on the latter’s Daily Blast podcast that when he writes positive pieces about the Biden economy, his editor asks “don’t you want to qualify” it; “aren’t people upset by X, Y and Z and shouldn’t you be acknowledging that?”

Meanwhile in an accusatory piece about Kamala Harris headlined When your opponent calls you ‘communist,’ maybe don’t propose price controls?, a Washington Post columnist declares in another case of bothsiderism: “Voters want to blame someone for high grocery bills, and the presidential candidates have apparently decided the choices are either the Biden administration or corporate greed. Harris has chosen the latter.” The evidence that corporations have jacked up prices and are reaping huge profits is easy to find, but facts don’t matter much in this kind of opining.

It’s hard to gloat over the decline of these dinosaurs of American media, when a free press and a well-informed electorate are both crucial to democracy. The alternatives to the major news outlets simply don’t reach enough readers and listeners, though the non-profit investigative outfit ProPublica and progressive magazines such as the New Republic and Mother Jones, are doing a lot of the best reporting and commentary.

Earlier this year, when Alabama senator Katie Britt gave her loopy rebuttal to Biden’s State of the Union address, it was an independent journalist, Jonathan Katz, who broke the story on TikTok that her claims about a victim of sex trafficking contained significant falsehoods. The big news outlets picked up the scoop from him, making me wonder what their staffs of hundreds were doing that night.

A host of brilliant journalists young and old, have started independent newsletters, covering tech, the state of the media, politics, climate, reproductive rights and virtually everything else, but their reach is too modest to make them a replacement for the big newspapers and networks. The great exception might be historian Heather Cox Richardson, whose newsletter and Facebook followers give her a readership not much smaller than that of the Washington Post. The tremendous success of her sober, historically grounded (and footnoted!) news summaries and reflections bespeaks a hunger for real news.

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meowmeowmeowmeow4x · 1 year ago

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Supersons +1 propmt fill Part3 Tr3s

The sprinklers activated in an instant and covered the centre in a deluge of water. Whatever scientists remained scrambled to recover what remained of their creations before the water could irrevocably damage them. In a hidden corner, one Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent made knowing glances to each other, a mutual agreement reached in seconds after decades of friendship. With the help of a crowbar, the men quickly pry open one of the exit doors, making way for panicked civilians to exit the premises, 'Brucie' giving comfort to those distressed by the recent events. It wasn't long before they had to make themselves scarce. They had their sons to rescue, there was no time!

As Bruce and Clark snuck out into the empty hallway, having been quickly evacuated by a Gothamite's natural self-preservation instinct and discipline from years of attacks. They nodded, and went their seperate ways. Clark to go change into his Superman outfit, and Bruce to calm the inevitable deluge of reporters before changing into his own costume.

Cameras flashed over the front entrance to the event, blinding the last few stragglers to leave, and Bruce, standing tall against the crashing sea.

"Mr Wayne! What can you tell us about the new villain that Joker has teamed up with?"

"Mr Wayne, how does Wayne Industries intent to secure future events from attacks on this scale?"

"Where is Damian Wayne? Sir how can Wayne Industries secure the future of Gotham if you cannot protect your own children?"

"Mr Wayne is it true that you allowed Jack Fenton to attend the event despite knowing he was a quack?"

And on and on and on. Bruce never intended to give these people what they wanted. He had children to save, and investigations to conduct. Before he could excuse himself, however, a roaring boom echoed down the street like summer thunder. Reporters screamed as they trampled over each other to escape the path of a silver behemoth charging down the road. Thick metal plates lined its exterior. A large satellite dish adorned its top, and jutting out from the sides were massive guns. The van sported too many OSHA violations to be anything less than a tank on four wheels than any civilian vehicle. Batman will have to crack down on whatever corrupt whitecollar criminals allowed this monstrosity on the roads.

The van charged right up to where Bruce was standing on the pavement, before coming to a terrifyingly rapid halt, so sudden that the entire vehicle jerked forward from its momentum. It would have been cartoonish if it hadn't stopped cleanly right in front of him. The front door slammed open, and a pair of black-gloved hands grabbed Bruce by the shoulder. In public surrounded by cameras, Bruce was helpless but to comply.

"BRUCIE WAYNE! I'VE BEEN LOOKING ALL OVER FOR YOU!"

Bruce scanned the interior of the van in an instant, clocking in the undignified Clark Kent clinging to his seat like a child to their parents leg, tie messed up and suit creased. His classes were crooked on his face. "He just scooped me up like I was paper mache, Bruce!" The man's voice was shaking.

"Strap in Brucie, because the Fenton Family Ghost Assault Vehicle cares for no trivial matters like traffic laws, or even physics laws!"

What kind of branding was this? "The Fenton Family wha-" Jack slammed the gas. The GAV rocketed into max gear in an instant. The force threw the poor man off his feet. Bruce went hurtling into the backside of the GAV and crashed with a bang. The G-forces kept him glued to the wall like a black-suited starfish, at least until Clark extended an arm to peel him off.

"I'm starting to think you might be right about him being a supervillain." Clark whispered.

Bruce grimly nodded.

"Alright so now that we're all together, here's the plan folks!" Jack said, tone all too cheerful for the chaos he was creating on the road. Innocent cars swerved out of the way of the advancing war machine. Pedestrians clung to lampposts and fences as gale force winds blasted them from its wake. "Let's start with the bad news: Our kids have been spirited away by suffering spooks! The good news: The Fenton Radar works!" Jack tapped on a screen on the van's console, showing two beeping dots on a radar map.

"BUILDING!" Clark yelled. They were rocketing right into a townhouse.

Jack yanked the wheel to the left. The GAV turned 90 degrees in about half a second, turning both passengers into ragdolls thrown across the side. On the outside, a subtle Superman-shaped dent was visible. "Thanks for that, Clarkie! Now I'm sure you guys aren't as experienced as me and my lovely wife Maddie are in hunting ghosts, but don't worry! I can give you a crash course."

"Please don't say crash course." Clark quivered.

"Could you maybe slow down?!" Bruce yelled over the roaring engines.

"No can do, Brucie! Any slower and the GHOSTS will leave the Fenton Radar's range, and then we'll never get our kids back!"

"I think I'm going to be sick." So Kryptonians can get nausea from high-speed vehicles, interesting. He'll have to update his file.

"The Joker and his associates entered your portal and set it to blow, how can we even get the kids back if they're on the other side!"

Jack turned around with a smile. "That's what the Fenton PortaPortal version 2 is for! Never leave home without a spare, my grandpa Fenton always said!"

"Dr Fenton, that bridge was destroyed in a gang fight!" Bruce shouted. Construction workers were already scattering, but a thick concrete barrier stood in their way.

"No need to worry, Fenton engineering can handle a little hole here or there!"

"The entire bridge was destroyed, we're going to fall off!"

"I love your sense of humour Brucie, but even if we did it wouldn't matter!"

"I really think it does, Dr Fenton!" Clark gripped the bottom of the nearby seat hard enuogh to dent.

"Nonsense, watch this!" Jack pushed the gas even further, as if that was even possible. The GAV reduced the concrete barrior to smithereens. "Go go Fenton Famliy Ghost Assault Vehicle: Aerial Mode!" The mad scientist's shouted in glee. He pulled another lever, activating a pair of wings from the sides.

Clark would deny screaming like a girl to the end of his days.

~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, in the Zone...

Danny shifted nervously in his position, atop the swarm of Lydia's bats, and flanked by the freaking Joker of all people on one side and Freaking Freakshow on the other. What did he do to deserve this?

If It was just the Joker and Freakshow, he would just happily transform and kick the snot out of these clowns, but sadly he's not alone.

Also tied up with rope both human and ghostly were one Damian Wayne and Jon Kent, the former of which looked none too pleased about the current situation. While Damian spat vitriol upon the Joker and his "D-list half-rate assisstant," with man himself largely ignoring his words to fawn over the chaos of the Realms, Danny contemplated his options. Good news: Freakshow hadn't blown his secret yet, which was cold comfort for the moment, seeing as if he had, he'd just be able to punch these suckers and be done with it, but nooo. Maybe he could overshadow the other boys and hypnotise them into forgetting? Was that a thing that can be done? Would've been convenient, and because of that, Danny suspected it's wishful thinking. If it worked, great, if it didn't work, well Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne have ties to the Justice League, who have ties to the government, who hire the GiW, so there's a non-zero percent chance such a stunt would end up with him on a dissection table.

Which means he's left playing the waiting game, spectating the Joker jumping up and down like a fangirl over all the green, and purple, and fighting, and death. First day in Gotham, guys.

"Psst." Jon whispered to him.

Danny said nothing, but leaned a little on Jon's side.

"Don't worry, we're gonna be ok, I'm sure the J-J-Justice League will be here. Just sit t-t-tight, ok?"

Wow, that was really touching that he was trying to comfort Danny, but the ghostly part of him didn't even need to feel Jon's shaking, or hear his stutter to know the kid was absolutely terrified. Now that he thought about it, it really should be him doing the comforting.

"Eh I wouldn't hedge my bets on it." Causing the other boy to squeak in fear. Curse you, snark instinct. Why can't you be heroic and reassuring instead.

"Neither would I, boy." Freakshow said, almost like he was rubbing in just how much danger his secret was in.

"You will unhand us, or you will know the meaning of pain in every sense of the world. This I tell you. I will feed you to my chickens. I will cut up your flesh and grind it into paste and then fertilise my vegetable garden with it. You will regret crossing me."

Jon let out the faintest whisper, something Danny would've never heard if he wasn't a ghost, and a master of quiet sounds. "Really selling the normal kid act here, Damian."

"On the contrary, lovely chlidren, I believe it is you who will soon become ghosts. NEYEHEHEYEHEH" Oh god here comes the gratuitous laughter. "I can't believe such a t~~tttttTANTALISING opportunity has been out there for me this whole time! AHAHAHAHAAH. And for you, my little children, to have come to this wonderful little science expo alongside your dear old daddies only to become part of the exhibit?" The Joker cracked into laughter, slapping his knees and collapsing in fitful giggles.

Each of the free boys gulped, each of them considering how to save the apparent civilian(s) among them without exposing themselves...

@impyssadobsessions

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 8 months ago

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Rebecca Solnit is a Guardian US columnist. She is the author of Orwell’s Roses and co-editor with Thelma Young Lutunatabua of the climate anthology Not Too Late: Changing the Climate Story from Despair to Possibility

#election 2024 #The Guardian #Rebecca Solnit #political #the media #press #corporate press #false equivalence

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shrekgogurt · 1 year ago

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I have a lot of words written for Chapter 15 of that behemoth in the making I Knew A Boy, I Knew A Man and only some of them are good. Here are a few of those select ‘good words.’

Simon POV, past (age fifteen):

“You’re out of uniform,” Premal announces, flashing his prefect badge at Penny and me like a fucking copper.

Cachu hwch. (Pig’s shit.) (Total fucking disaster.)

We’ve been caught out.

And it’s not even our fault.

I woke up this morning and realised all my socks were gone—stolen by Baz’s psychotic aunt, no doubt. She was glaring at me like I pissed in a great Pitch family heirloom when she dropped him off yesterday. (And it was her.) (I’m convinced.) (Because Baz once told me he would rather saw his arm off with a rusty piece of barbed wire than touch any of my “chavvy accouterments.”) (So...) Anyway, Penny shirked her own socks at breakfast in solidarity and together we’ve managed to hide our bare ankles from even the most militant professors. But we forgot Premal was on the prowl, drunk off his new power and the opportunity to wield it over his siblings.

Penny crosses her arms in defiance. “We’re not even in your year.”

“You don’t need to be. I’m authorised by The Headmistress to distribute demerits to anyone who violates school policy.”

“Listen to yourself!” Penny’s arms flail as she yells. “The Headmistress? She gave birth to you! Call her mum, you prat!”

Bah humbug! Editing!? I have to do it!? And also still finish the last bit of the rough draft??? Boo! But, writing in a notebook has been great for speed if not a bit of a downgrade in initial quality.

Thanks for the tags! @alexalexinii @artsyunderstudy @monbons @prettygoododds @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @mooncello @blackberrysummerblog

Now tagging! @bookish-bogwitch @brilla-brilla-estrellita @captain-aralias @cutestkilla @ebbpettier @emeryhall @excalisbury @facewithoutheart @fatalfangirl @hagnoart @iamamythologicalcreature @ileadacharmedlife @ineffable-grimm-pitch @ivelovedhimthroughworse @j-nipper-95 @larkral @letraspal @martsonmars @messofthejess @mitranian @nightimedreamersworld @ninemagicks @noblecorgi @onepintobean @orange-peony @palimpsessed @raenestee @rimeswithpurple @roomwithanopenfire @theearlgreymage @theimpossibledemon @thewholelemon @urban-sith @valeffelees @whogaveyoupermission @yellobb @youarenevertooold

#ikabikam #Bunce family angst #Premal Bunce of Percy Weasley fame #listen I think prefects are real #I may have given him too much power but oh well #and I know I had demerits at my high school #so they’re gonna have them at Watford #smooches

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sunshinemoonrx · 2 months ago

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Thoughts about the female characters in Saint Seya. We talked about the series' handling of gender nonconformity few months back and I want to hear more

IT'S COMPLICATED

So Saint Seiya jumps with both feet into being a SHONEN MANGA about THE BEAUTY OF MEN WHO FEEL LOVE AND LOYALTY FOR EACH OTHER...it's very Manly, in the unique way that it is (men don't have to be "masculine", they can be very effeminate and this is lauded as heroic, but they are still "manly" in that melodramatic, chivalrous, 'manly tears of friendship' way). So with that heavy focus, where does that leave the women?

(There is one big obvious point here and everyone who's seen the show knows what it is but we are going to put a PIN in it and come back to it at the END okay)

They kind of run the full spectrum for this kind of show. In the original series, you have a weird complex of ideas around Athena; she's simultaneously the most powerful being in the show whose mere aura renders all terrified speechless before her, and the cosmic damsel device who enables most of the plot by needing rescued from increasingly involved timed deathraps so that the hard-working punch-lads have anything to do; simultaneously the stone-cold leader of Sanctuary who will stride into the underworld to smack Hades until her hand bleeds, and the idealised passive maiden who all the Saints orbit with a sort of platonic courtly love type devotion. She's the symbolic femininity to the Saints' symbolic masculinity. This makes the whole existence of women Saints interesting, but we have PUT A PIN IN THE THEMATIC PART HERE so let's just talk about those women as individuals for now.

The actual women Saints, as uncommon as they are, are legendarily cool. Marin and Shaina should kiss are also, indeed, stone-cold, and are among the most memorable magical warriors in the show. There is a manga/anime difference here--the anime, for whatever reason, plays up Shaina at Marin's expense; giving her more followers and making her out to be dominant in their rivalry, while Marin is a bit softened in general and gets some more stereotypical needing-to-be-rescued moments not in the manga. Her overall personality is still primarily 'cool and intimidating' though, and I don't think this is really noticeable unless you've seen both versions.

Then, of course, there's the one million and one spinoffs. Some of these are really interesting! Saint Seiya Omega is much more interested in Youth generally than Manliness, so it leans more sentai-like; the original series' women Saints are antagonists, mentors and side characters, while Omega puts one in the main Plucky Kids Squad and puts some among the Gold Saints (which I do appreciate, much like the CG movie doing so, but I don't hugely begrudge the original for not doing? it's impossible to overstate how much the classic Golds make up of the bedrock for the whole culture of hot anime boys to imagine kissing you or each other); and the second season of that show may have really taken a nosedive but my brain lights UP when Gemini Integra swears knightly loyalty to Athena on her knees and this enables her to defeat her evil counterpart through the Power Of Love.

But if you want a spin-off with really well-written, well-drawn and hot as fuck women you must read the Lost Canvas (which is written by a woman tbf). I mean, you must read the Lost Canvas anyway, but also for this reason. Yuzuriha occupies the cool mysterious role someone like Marin always did, but among others it also takes the character of Pandora, who was kind of a shallow "passive maiden but evil" character in the original, and makes her an absolutely incredible well of determination and driving force the whole story trails after. She's so awesome.

There's also a character named Behemoth Violate!

I think she's interesting,

(For real it's cool that her gender is extremely not obvious at first when she's fully armoured, and nor is it treated as a big reveal to my memory. design that conveys Powerful and Intimidating way before Girl)

I will leave aside the Next Dimension character who is maybe probably some sort of trans woman, partly because we discussed that in the talk you mentioned in the ask, partly because that's a whole other IT'S COMPLICATED, so let's finally take that pin out and talk about:

Women Saints, like, symbolically, as embodied by the most overtly sexist part of the whole series, the Mask Rule, and how I think the wider series takes the original way too literally on it.

The gist is that because the original Saints in ancient times were all men (unclear when this changed, clearly at least by the 1700s, or the 1400s if Lost Canvas flashbacks count), a woman Saint has to symbolically 'abandon her femininity' by wearing one of those metal facemasks at least around men, and can only show her face to a man if she loves him; and if a man who she doesn't love sees her face, she has to kill him.

Now, you might ask, "why the hell would Athena come up with this", and the answer is: High shojo melodrama.

Or really, one instance of high shojo melodrama. I'm not even convinced Kurumada had this in mind when he first drew a pair of rival mentor-women with very similar designs, down to the matching metal facemasks, for chapter 1. Like, he might've. But Marin shows Seiya her face at the end of the chapter with the implication it's secret but not forbidden, and the series doesn't float her as a romantic interest for him thereafter; nor does Shaina bring this up when her mask is broken, and she's swearing vengeance on Seiya anyway so it mostly fits together but it does feel pretty retroactive when she shows up five volumes later to say "and by the way the rules say I have to kill you unless I happen to fall in love with you--ahhhh shit". An encounter which, as indicated, I firmly believe the whole rule was created to enable, because the series is interested (briefly) in presenting Shaina as a romantic interest for Seiya, and because this series can't do anything at less than 200% drama, that has to involve them facing the ULTIMATE CHOICE between LOVE or DEATH!!!

So I don't think it particularly says much about Kurumada's attitudes towards women so much as his desire to tell love stories as over-the-top as his battle scenes. Especially as the women in the other gods' armies, their Saint equivalents (Mariners, Spectres, Satellites--hey shoutout to Artemis for having an army of bunnygirls on the moon, shoutout to Next Dimension for keeping some level of homoromantic subtext with Callisto), don't have any such rule. Of course they don't--we only needed it for that one story beat.

Hence I think Lost Canvas, again, handles this the best out of the various spinoffs, by having Yuzuriha briefly appear in a mask, then discard it very quickly saying the rule is kinda old-fashioned (in the 1700s!) and who cares anyway; matching her up with what seems to be Marin's "eh, whatever" attitude. (This, I feel, provides some very strong retroactive characterisation for Shaina, fitting in perfectly with her being an obsessive stickler for Sanctuary's various insane murderous honour-rules, as basically the only character in the series to follow this one to the letter)

Omega, meanwhile, uses it to more explicitly go into feminism and misogyny? Which I certainly agree with in principle--of course, an organisation with such a marked double standard clearly does have ingrained biases, and that makes a useful pull for a story about a woman choosing to dramatically cast off that which forces her to hide herself, and declare herself the equal of her male counterparts. It's a good episode. I do feel, though, that in doing so it presents an exaggerated idea of how much of a big sexist deal was made of this rule in the original series--in which, as mentioned, it's really only Shaina the arch-traditionalist who's yelling about it.

I also feel there's more to dig into here than was, I'm sure, consciously on Kurumada's mind at any point when coming up with the original justification. By putting on the mask, female Saints are symbolically becoming male Saints on one level (and that "on one level" is a strong qualifier; they are still referred to as and considered to be women, but they're not assumed to be 'non-combatants via chivalry' or 'potential targets of heterosexual interest'). They're also entering into the same devoted-protector/admirer-of-heavenly-beauty relationship those male Saints have with Athena, the idealised divine graceful woman. And isn't that really interesting? Isn't introducing the whole idea of gender as a piece of apparel you can don and discard into this Weekly Jump fantasy series kind of fascinating? (Especially accidentally via the medium of 'what if this organisation had weird archaic rules to enable this specific high drama romance plot point I wanna do in this chapter') Does this make Marin/Aiolia yaoi?

So yeah, that's some more about gender in Saint Seiya.

Oh yeah also there's a whole spinoff manga about a special secret squad of girl Saints (Saintia Sho). It's aight. Mii wants Saori so bad it makes her look stupid.

#saint seiya

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lialacleaf · 1 year ago

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Simon Riley x Reader: Baking Headcannons Pt. 3

Previous Next

Simon realizes after the hundredth recipe from the Riley cookbook that he wants you, and he wants you bad.

His days are spent pretending that you’re his cute little wife while the two of you dance around each other in the kitchen.

The problem is he doesn’t want you to leave at the end of the meal, he wants to drag you back to his room for dessert.

He really can’t read your opinion of him, if you want more or if this is all he’ll ever be to you. It drives him a little bit mad but little does he know you’re equally as frustrated, trying to figure out what he’s thinking under that mask.

It all comes to a head over some plum danishes.

You had a bit of Jam on your upper lip, and Simon’s sniper gaze zeroed in on it, unable to focus on anything else as he rucked his balaclava up over his nose and interrupted your delighted moans at how delicious your treat was with his tongue swiping over your mouth.

Neither of you moved, neither of you breathed as you locked eyes.

“I…’m sorry,” he mumbled, ducking his head as he retreated, leaving you wide eyed in the kitchen.

You didn’t see him for a month after that, and you felt a real fear grip your chest that you’d never see him in the kitchen again. It left you a little hollow, and you missed the warm presence of his shoulder bumping yours.

You should have grabbed him, held him right there and squeezed him ‘til he popped.

You were such a fool. You had a behemoth of a man packed with muscle that could cook right at your fingertips, and you let him get away because you were too stunned by his actions to convey your own affections.

You were certain you were never going to see him again until you were pulling a tray of shortbreads out of the oven, and you nearly dropped it at the sight of the masked man, Ghost himself in all his glory. Peeking at you from the doorway.

It was clear that he’d just returned from a job, and you watched with wide eyes as he stared at you carefully from the door.

You felt a small smile curve onto your lips, beckoning him over with the curl of your fingers.

He watched warily as you set down the tray of cookies.

We’re you going to yell at him? Tell him his behavior had been inappropriate?

He swallowed thickly as he stopped right in front of you.

Imagine his surprise when you picked up a cookie from the tray, biting into with an over exaggerated sigh, before reaching for his mask.

He let you lift it up, exposing his mouth, and you gently placed the remainder of the cookie in his gaping mouth, you thumb swiping against his tongue and bottom lip.

“Welcome home, Simon,” you whispered, squeezing his shoulders.

From that moment on everyone knows that Simon’s girl can cook up a storm.

The two of you are practically hosting Thanksgiving.

Johnny always asks if you’ve got a sister and you’re reply is “Not one that can cook.”

Simon always has the proudest look in his eyes when the team complements your cooking. He was your teacher after all.

It’s not long before you’re contemplatively looking over the recipe book and come to a sudden conclusion.

“There’s a recipe for a wedding cake in here.”

You say it so matter-of-fact that Simon almost misses the implication of your words.

“There is,” he states, sipping a mug of tea.

You’re practically grinning at him. “Be a shame if we never got to try it,” you tease, tossing the bait to see if he bites.

“A real shame.” He doesn’t look up from his mug but a month later he’s sliding a ring on your finger and you’re spooning your first attempt at your wedding cake into his mouth.

Tags:

@originaldeerhottub @bibbyreads @emily-roberts @animarix @babygirl-riley @vinithechoclatevampire @notsosweetcheeks

@beautifullycollectivewolf @oranoyaora

@i-feel-violated @cjmonsterwolf

#simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley

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justinspoliticalcorner · 7 months ago

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Miranda Nazzaro at The Hill, via NewsNation:

(The Hill) — More than a dozen states and the District of Columbia sued TikTok on Tuesday, alleging the platform exploits and harms young users while “deceiving” the public about these dangers. California Attorney General Rob Bonta and New York Attorney General Letitia James led the coalition of 14 attorneys general, who each filed suits in state court over violations of state consumer protection laws. Bonta said a national investigation into TikTok found that the platform “cultivates social media addiction to boost corporate profits.” The investigation was launched in March 2022 by a bipartisan coalition of attorneys general from various states including New Jersey, California, North Carolina and Kentucky.

“TikTok intentionally targets children because they know kids do not yet have the defenses or capacity to create healthy boundaries around addictive content,” Bonta wrote. “When we look at the youth mental health crisis and the revenue machine TikTok has created, fueled by the time and attention of our young people, it’s devastatingly obvious: Our children and teens never stood a chance against these social media behemoths,” he continued. TikTok’s business platform allegedly prioritizes maximizing young users’ time through its algorithm, which determines what users see on the app’s “For You” page. This helps boost the platform’s revenue through targeted advertising, the suits alleged. The social media platform is further accused of deploying “manipulative features” to keep young users hooked, including its beauty filters, push notifications, temporary stories and livestreams.

13 states and DC sue TikTok for exploiting children and teens and deceiving the public.

#TikTok #Social Media

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lostinpleasantview · 9 months ago

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The Altos are one of the founding families of Pleasantview, and their roots in the region stretch back to when the area was previously known as Sunset Valley. Despite this, fifty years have passed since the pinnacle of their political and economic dominance.

Gone are the days of Vita Alto, matriarch of the Alto Family who served as chairwoman of the National Center Party who dominated SimNation politics for nearly sixty years; her storied political career included a forty years within SimNation's Congress, where she served as a congresswoman and senator. Her political career culminated in a stint as Ambassador of Salvadorada, where she played a decisive role in brokering a peace agreement that ended the Salvadoradan Civil War and began Salvadorada's transition to democracy. (Less discussed are Vita's political failures—her three failed primary campaigns to become the Center Party's presidential candidate in 1960, 1968, and 1972; or her financial and material support for the anti-communist Salvadoran Officer's Movement in the 1950s, which helped lead to the troubles in Salvadorada that she later "solved").

If Vita stood as a behemoth, then fewer still recall her husband Nick Alto, patriarch of the Alto family who served as head of Alto Industries—a sprawling business and industrial conglomerate founded by Vita's forebears. Nick's heading of the company allowed Vita to remain above the fray and focused on her political career—though millions in federal funds and subsidies still trickled towards Alto Industries.

Aside from their legal endeavors, there were also their illegal ones: Vita was heiress not only to a legal business empire, but an illegal one as well: the Alto Crime Family, an old-school mob racket. Vita and Nick's years were the golden era for the Alto's... yet it all floundered through the lack of an heir.

Vita and Nick had a daughter, Holly. Holly was everything that her parents were not: sensitive, artistic, and certainly with no taste, acumen, or ambition for a career in politics, business, or even heading the family's sprawling criminal enterprises. By 1980, things were slowing down: Vita's storied political career had come to an en following her tenure as ambassador, and there were rumors of federal regulators preparing to investigate Alto Industries for labor violations. Rather than allow their hard work to be squandered, Vita and Nick arranged that their daughter should marry one of the Alto Family's highest ranking Capos, a man known as Damien.

Shortly after Holly and Damien's wedding, Damien was formally recognized by Vita and Nick as the future successor of the Alto Crime Family. This recognition was finalized when Damien was added to the Alto Family Trust, which in 1980 had funds in excess to 200 Million Simoleons. With the faith placed in him, Damien immediately turned against his in-laws... or so the story goes. Both Vita and Nick died in a very suspicious car-crash in 1981, leaving Damien in control of the Alto crime syndicate. Alto Industries elected an interim CEO—who soon found himself ensnared in a series of corruption scandals and federal indictments, which wrecked the company's valuation—by 1989 Alto Industries would file for bankruptcy. Black Monday in 1989 proved a shock to the Alto's wealth, and the Alto Family Trust lost nearly 100 Million in value.

Holly, though trapped in a loveless marriage, was freed by the death of her parents. Her husband provided liberal funding for her music career, and by the late 1980s Holly Alto would be a household name in SimNation as one of the nation's most famous pop stars. Her tours earned millions; in the midst of her busy musical career, Holly gave birth to twin girls: Venice and Verona. Holly's marriage entered a rocky phase in the late 80s; rumors of divorce were squashed when Holly discovered that Damien would be able to claim a portion of the Alto Trust for himself.

Damien was assassinated in 1991 by faction of disgruntled members within the Alto Crime Family. His death tore the Alto's illicit business empire to shreds, with squabbling factions competing for turf and territory. A moderate faction looked to Holly to take the reigns of the criminal enterprise, but she resolutely refused—allowing the faction still loyal to her family name to be governed by a series of well-meaning but ultimately hapless deputies. Holly and her daughters continued to receive payouts from the family's criminal enterprises throughout the 90s, but these ceased by 2002. Holly found herself forced to sustain her lifestyle and expenses through the family trust, as well as through whatever income she could generate through her musical career, which entered a slump by the mid-2000s. By 2005, SimPop magazine declared Holly a has-been; by 2015, the online blogosphere branded Holly a flop after a poorly advised stadium tour in Salvadorada was marred by technical difficulties, poor performances, and protests.

Family troubles also carried into the next generation: Venice and Verona were complete opposites, and though they were friends in childhood, they drifted apart as teenagers. This distance became venomous when both girls attended Sim State University: both ended up placed upon Academic Probation. Though Verona succeeded in getting her grades together and graduating with decent grades, Venice ended up flunking out. Both of Holly's daughters have now returned home to the nest, Villa Alto—as Holly grapples with severe financial issues that threaten to send the family from their luxurious manse into the poorhouse.

Venice continues to shop and spend like there is there no tomorrow, and dreams of an entertainment career of her own... as an actress. Verona, meanwhile, has recently picked up a gig as a Physic Phone Pal... though a group of cadres affiliated with the Alto Crime Family who remain loyal to the family have reached out to her, clamoring for her to take her rightful spot as her father's heir.

Can Holly keep her squabbling daughters together and keep a roof over their head? Will Venice strike big and win in the fame games? And what about Verona? Will she embark on her own path, or will the tug of the past pull her in another direction?

#sims 2 #sims 2 pleasantview #holly alto #vita alto #nick alto #sims 3t2 #sims 2 gameplay #this is the last of my premades that I'm importing for now #i'm excited to get to play again and not just build!

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pinkbussycunt · 8 months ago

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Change: Caleb/Adam

@alphastoworship

The Andersons were known as the typical white trash stereotype in the city of Haddonfield. William Anderson was a vile drunk and his oldest son, Michael Anderson was a criminal and a drug addict. Neither of them were good men, and they both have had their fair shares with the police. Never has it gotten this bad before. William Anderson was arrested for domestic violence and Michael Anderson was arrested for assault and battery. However, both of them were also charged with the heinous crime of sexual assault, and the victim of this horrible crime was the youngest member of this white trash family, Caleb Anderson.

Little Caleb Anderson was nothing like his drunk of a father or his addict for a brother. Many had a hard time believing that Caleb was even related to them. Caleb was a model student in school, champion gymnast and ballet dancer, model citizen of his community, active member of his church, active member in the boy scouts and over all good kid. Caleb was a young man who had a bright future ahead of him, but his future was always in jeopardy due to his toxic family, and unfortunately, their abuse reached a breaking point, pushing Caleb into a darkness he never thought possible.

Caleb had lived with verbal and emotional abuse for years, and he had no idea. While these forms of abuse did take a toll on little Caleb psyche, the physical abuse and the violating assault were pushing Caleb down a dark path. His grades were slipping, he wasn't dancing or working on his gymnastics, he wasn’t going to church, he wasn’t as active in the community anymore, and he was falling behind in his scouting activities. Caleb used to be a happy go lucky young man, now he was isolated, reclusive and emotionally distant. His teachers and foster families were even saying that they noticed the boy was starting to mutilate himself. That’s when the school counselor, principal and court system decided to take action.

The local authorities called on Officer Adam Davis for help. The Captain of the police force was a towering giant of a man. Six and a half feet tall, huge muscular build, golden yellow hair and bright blue eyes. The behemoth was also a decorated war hero, serving in the armed forces. He was an active member of the local church, actively served as a community leader and was the local scout master to the city’s local troop. The behemoth was a pillar of the community, and the school called upon him for help. Since Caleb was not adjusting to foster homes and was showing troubling signs, the school and the local court asked for the giant of a man to take the little red head into his care.

In theory, it was the perfect solution. Officer Davis has been an active participant in Caleb’s life for years. They went to the same church, lived in the same neighborhood and were part of the same scout troop. In theory, it was a perfect idea. However, none of them knew what was lurking behind the scenes. Adam was one of, if not the only good man in Caleb’s life. They loved each other like a father and son. At least it started out that way. However, while that genuine love and care for one another is still there, it has started to evolve over the years. It’s started to change into something……..else. The way they looked at each other was different. The way they interacted with each other was different. They way they treated each other was different. No one had any idea that the affection and love between these two have started as familiar, but as the years past, that love has become more……..carnal, and no one in the community had any idea of it.

Being that no one knew of the true depth between the towering giant of a man and the tiny little red head, Caleb was approved to live under Officer Davis’ guardianship and care. After another day drifting through school, Caleb was picked up by Officer Davis’ police truck and taken to his new home. The two used to always enjoy their time together when Caleb was a boy, but now, the air between them was riddled with a carnal tension and primitive chemistry that was very difficult to ignore. No one had any idea just how deep and complicated this relationship was.

Caleb remembered that Officer Davis use to live in a nice home with his wife. Now that they were divorced, the behemoth of a man lived in a tiny one bed room apartment far off the outskirts of town. They were miles away from the rest of town, only adding more tension between the troubled young man and the police officer. “ Nice place,” Caleb said as he scanned the place. It was small, but it was cozy. Besides, for the first time

in a long time, Caleb felt safe. He knew that if anything were to happen, Mr. D would protect him at all costs.

For a minute there, Caleb didn’t say anything. He just looked upward and into the eyes of the giant for years. He loved this man as a father. He loved this man as a protector and provider. Now that he had grown up, Caleb loved Adam simply for what he was. A man. A good, honest, hard working, wonderful man. No words were said, Caleb simply stared into those eyes he had known for years, looking at them in a completely different light. Caleb didn’t know how exactly to describe it. The love he felt for Adam now was……diffferent, and secretly, he wanted to explore it.

“ Are you sure about this, Sir?” Caleb asked in a sweet and loving voice. His eyes reflected gratitude, but they also reflected a great pain that was buried deep inside of him. He was too scared to face it alone. He couldn't do it alone.

“ I can go somewhere else, if you want me too.”

#caleb and adam

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yet-another-heathen · 2 years ago

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Prying at Loose Fangs - IV

3,081 words. Original Work: The Jackal of An-Nadr.

For new readers, The Jackal is an ongoing whump series set in 1,200 BCE, where pre-Islamic fantasy meets the love of bloody sword fights, found family, and handsome men who long for nothing more than home.

<< | previous | next | >>

Chapter Warning | desert whump, epic worldbuilding, demonic pirates and the sandships they sail, defiant whumpee, captured and manhandled, non-con drugging (aphrodisiac, repurposed as a sedative), fear of noncon, language and cultural barriers, food & acute starvation, graphic depiction of a wounded foot that is beginning to fester, brief mention of predation

Taglist | @killtheprotagonist @secretwhumplair @ink-and-salt @kixngiggles @brutal-nemesis @thebewilderer @whumpvp @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whimperwoods @shydragonrider @pizzasthengym @thecyrulik @ceph-the-writing-spook @mylifeisonthebookshelf @ohwhumpydays @redwingedwhump @whump-queen

Nadeem’s arms were going numb, back pressed hard into the scales of a date tree.

Twice. Twice in barely a week he’d had his hands bound and useless, and his frustration was the only distraction he had from pure, unbridled panic.

The morning light cast cold shadows against the side of the ship, the terrible monolith of the mast looming against the sky and casting shade across the remains of their camp.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t see the ship from where he had hidden before, but experiencing it up close was still so, so much worse. His eyes slid nervously over the hull, painted in grey that ended where the sand met the behemoth's brass-coated underbelly. Brass glittered at the feet of the rails, in the rigging where ropes swayed in the breeze. Mirrors hung from the railing in a dazzling display that cast reflections of light back across the camp, sometimes catching on the thin wisps of smoke that rose from the shoulders of the crew.

Under the prow of the ship the bronze figure of an oryx bowed its head, spiral horns tilted forward. Nadeem stared for a long while into the unnerving liveliness of its eyes, then lowered his gaze back to the sand.

The ship was at least three times bigger than the largest he had ever before set eyes on. Bigger even than the great caravan leaders whose hulls cut so deep into the sand that they could not come to port in his village's shallow harbor. And this ship hadn't just been built, it had been made terribly, painstakingly beautiful.

That, even more so than its size, unsettled him deeply—if these pirates had enough wealth and time to spend decorating their ship like this, how much time did they have to spend on him?

The ifrit had spent the morning loading the rest of their belongings back onto the boat. Half a dozen men and women worked to fill massive copper urns with water, hoisting them onto the deck as if they weighed nothing. Each time they passed him their attention lingered, a few even daring to reach out and prod at him with their clawless lower sets of arms. The casual violation made him so furious he could barely breathe.

The big one that had caught him did more touching than the rest, and there was nothing Nadeem could do to stop it. Hands tugged at his shirt seams. Nudged his back. Lingered on his shoulders.

It was studying him. He knew something was on the edge of going terribly wrong, and helpless anger raged in his chest with every unwanted touch. He narrowed his eyes when the ifrit now approached, skin crawling when it knelt in front of him. It said something, then its chest came within inches of his face as reached around to undo his ropes.

He was so shocked by the sudden invasion of his space that he simply froze, heart racing as it began to haul him to his feet.

As soon as it had him standing it coaxed him toward the ship, corralling him back toward the ladder. Nadeem limped backward, seething. His voice was low and dark, “I am not getting on that boat.”

Two minutes later he was dumped unceremoniously onto the deck, the air whooshing out of his lungs as his shoulders hit the wood. The ifrit stepped over the railing and muttered something at him, then tossed him over its shoulder like he weighed no more than a sack of saltwheat.

His empty stomach churned as gravity shifted. The sudden increase in elevation made all his muscles tighten quickly enough to make him squeak.

He fought to catch himself in the fabric of its sash, a terrified little groan escaping him when it started walking. He could feel every weightless drop and jostle of its long strides. It felt like he was about to be dropped.

The floorboards swayed beneath him, the shadow cast by the loosened sail gliding across the deck like a snake. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding on as tightly as he could.

They descended into a hold below the main deck of the ship, ladder creaking beneath their weight as they descended into the darkness. A sudden bolt of panic raced through him when he realized there was no one else in this little room. Nadeem couldn't think of a single good thing that could come from being taken somewhere alone.

He was dumped onto something soft, and immediately pinned down by a massive, clawed hand. His heart was already pounding in his chest.

"S̴̟͘t̵͉̓à̸̢y̴͎͒ ̶͎͝w̵̯̎h̴̳̄e̷͕̎r̵̥̆e̶̬̾ ̸̣͑y̷͙̎o̶͉͐ư̷̠ ̸̖̽ä̵̬́r��̞̈e̶̟̿.̷͇̅"

He didn't have to know Qururaq to know it was an order to stay put.

The hand lifted off him very, very slowly, nails prickling at his clothes, before the ifrit released him.

"Ỉ̶̦ ̷̩̌w̴͛͜i̵͔͘l̷̟̔ĺ̵̯ ̶̺̑l̸͙̊ê̶͓t̷̺͊ ̵͔̈́t̴̙͝h̴͔͒e̸̩͗ ̵̳̂ṙ̴̯é̶͎s̶̚ͅt̷̯̿ ̶̹̌o̶͜͝f̷̤̄ ̶̠̒t̷̟̑h̸̻̿e̴͇͗ ̷̙͑c̷̦̑r̴̤̈ę̶̌w̷̙͌ ̷̰̏h̵̻̊â̸̹v̸͇̐e̴̦̒ ̸̦̐t̶̞̿h̴̪́e̴͈͘i̸̲̾r̷̛͙ ̶͙̉f̴̡́u̴͔͘n̵̜̽ ̴͎͝ẘ̷͖î̸̬t̷̯̕ḣ̵̰ ̴̫̈́y̸̘̿o̴͕̚u̴̯͗ ̴̲͐ȋ̴̯f̵̘͆ ̷̺͛ŷ̷͜o̴̹̅u̶͖͋ ̵̝̍t̷͈͒r̵̼͝y̵̞̏ ̸̞̆t̶̺͐o̶̥͛ ̴̯̊r̷̆͜u̷͍̓ń̶̺.̸̦͝"

It was infuriating. This ifrit knew full fucking well he couldn't understand what it was saying.

It began digging around through the items lining the low shelf that encircled the room, stripping off its sword belt. Nadeem eyed the wicked curve of its blades, sinking further away as it set them aside.

Unlit lanterns hung overhead, clanging against the wide curve of its shoulders as it moved in the dim space. The room smelled of incense, as though years of use had caused the scent to seep into the wood itself. The bunk he’d been dumped on smelled strongest of all. It swayed under his weight, then dipped when the ifrit sat at its end.

That was bad. That was very, very bad. Nadeem coiled to fight, starvation and injured foot be damned, but in the next moment the ifrit turned away to grab something off a nearby table.

Food.

All the gods below, that was food. A half-loaf of bread, the dark crust split like clay after the rain. His stomach suddenly felt like it was trying to eat itself alive.

His expression must have given away too much, because when he glanced back up the ifrit was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read. It broke off the heel, and held it out to him.

Despite his fear, despite the black talons it was balanced between, he didn't hesitate. He craned forward and took it, then retreated immediately back out of reach.

He even managed to wait long enough to make sure that the ifrit wasn't planning to follow him. Then he tore into it like a scavenger into a ribcage. Nothing in the world mattered but his hunger.

It had been more than four days since the last scrap of food the merchants had given him. And while that was far from the longest he had ever gone without a meal, never before in his life had he traveled as far as he had over the last few days. His body was starving.

He knew this was something he should take slowly. But as soon as his teeth sank in, he didn't have the willpower to stop. And though the ifrit didn't make any move to come closer, he had already learned his lesson about giving a captor enough chance to take his food away from him.

Soon he'd eaten all he'd been given, almost breathless from it. The ifrit still hung back at the edge of the bed, watching him with those dark eyes. And then he held out another piece of bread. Smaller this time, but just as freely given.

Nadeem glanced between its hand and its face, then inched forward again. He took it, and immediately drew away.

And so it went, the ifrit breaking off small pieces and handing them to him one at a time. Although the bread wasn't warm, the crust was still flaky and the inside not yet hardened from the dry desert air. These weren't just discarded scraps—it couldn't have been made more than a day or two before. In all likelihood, he was being given the ifrit's own breakfast.

After the first few pieces hit his stomach, Nadeem managed to slow himself down. He felt almost boneless with relief. But it wasn't nearly enough to earn the ifrit his trust. He kept himself just out of arm's reach, casting sideways glances its direction.

It was one big fucking ifrit. Not just in the 'so much taller than me I feel like a child' way, but built like an ox, too. It was more nude than not, its chest bare save for the black sash it wore from shoulder to hip. Its limbs were adorned with jewelry, brass circling its wrists and hanging in delicate chains from its neck. Even the symmetrically braided, narrow locs that patterned across its scalp were woven with polished metal. It wore no turban, its shoulder-length hair as brazenly exposed as its skin.

…thank the gods it least it was wearing pants.

He had been wrong about its skin being grey. Rather than the red or coppery undertones he had seen in other humans his whole life, the same dark brown skin had a muted undertone of violet. The effect was still so close to grey he could think of no other word for it. It was just more... alive. The tips of its fingers were soot black, the color bleeding up into its hands in a gradient that spread all the way to the elbow. And it's talons—although he could think of no other word for them—weren't…actually talons. They had the same shape, but he could see no seam to indicate a nail. It was as though the tips of its fingers simply hardened into those claw-like tips.

The ifrit seemed to be being careful with them. It was surprising how delicate it managed to be, always holding up the offered bites between the tips where Nadeem could take them without being touched.

It was making no move to pull him out of his corner. He knew that didn't mean much—if it wanted to grab him it certainly had the reach to do it. And he still was all too aware that the ifrit sat between him and his only way out. But it seemed they weren't planning to eat him, at least. If they had they wouldn't have bothered feeding him first.

After his fourth bite of bread, the ifrit passed him a wooden cup. He drank eagerly, downing over half of it before stopping for a breath.

They weren't planning to eat him, but that still left at least a dozen reasons why they might be keeping him alive. And Nadeem was not optimistic that just because he'd avoided one awful fate that he wasn't destined for another.

He raised the cup to his lips again, and stopped.

That….wasn't water.

The liquid inside was cool and clear, and had been completely tasteless on his lips. But whatever it was, the surface of it wasn't right. Looking at it was like watching the sunlight glittering at the edge of a spring, shifting facets of light more radiant than even the Purratu back home. A million silvery, fragmented colors.

"What is this?"

The ifrit's expression told him what words didn't, and his blood went cold. It knew it had been caught. It reached out and took the cup back from him just as it almost fell from his fingers. And then Nadeem was pushing himself backward across the bed.

"What did you give me?"

The ifrit stood, returned to the ladder, and reached up to swing the trap door shut. Then dark eyes turned back to him.

Oh, gods, please. There was nowhere for him to go. Nadeem felt his breaths beginning to come short. And then it took a step closer.

He flattened himself against the wall, "Don't. You stay away from me, or I swear I'll rip you to pieces!"

The ifrit just settled into a chair near the foot of the cot. Nadeem's eyes were burning with tears that he refused to let fall. It was settling back in to wait.

Domos help him. What had been in that cup?

"What did you give me?"

The ifrit's eyes gave away nothing. They just studied him the same way he had studied it, though with no attempt to hide the way it was taking him in. He was going to be sick.

"If you lay so much as a finger on me—"

"S̶̤h̢͕hh͏̭," it made a sound halfway between a hush and a purr—from a cat just happened to be half the size of a house. It made every hair stand on end. "S̨҉͚̣a̦̠̕͜v̙̻́͞e̢͎̠͡ ̸̶͎̯y̙͙͠͡o̷͏̥̲ù̮̲͡ŗ̸̯̻ ҉̶͉͕è̛̱͇n͏̴͙̩e̡̨͍̥r̛̭̯͜g̢͍͈̕y҉̡̩̳,҉̠̳́ ̸͕͉͡j͓̜͡͠ą̜̜͟c̢҉͙̠ķ̡͚͓a̴̢̱̪l̢̨͈̺.̧͉̩͞ ̟̳͜͞Y̧̩̟͡o̶̢͉͎ư̷͖ͅ'̛҉̳̗r̸̴͇̤e̤͓͘͟ ̜̬͘͜g̶̩̞̕o̸͎̺͡i̢͏̰͇n̸̫̺͠g̜̱͢͝ ̴̛͉͉t̡̧̪̟o̶͇͇̕ ̷̨͈̯ṇ̲́̕e̻̝͢͞e͞͏͕̳d̻͖͜͞ i͕̣͢͠t̡҉̭̗."

He wanted to weep. What was he going to do? There was no way he'd be able to move quickly enough to get past it. And even if he did, with his foot so hurt there would be no getting back up that ladder before it grabbed him again. All he had were pillows and blankets, nothing even remotely viable as a weapon.

He had his nails. But compared to the ifrit's claws, his blunt little fingertips would barely even leave a scratch. His teeth were nearly as useless.

What was he going to do?

The minutes passed by quickly, but the ifrit didn't move. From outside he could hear the sound of cargo being shifted, voices calling back and forth to one another. Footsteps creaked directly overhead, but Nadeem didn't look away from the monster for even a moment.

It began slowly. A warmth that started in his belly and spread gradually up his spine. His fingertips tingled, then his lips. And then his head began to swim.

Please, no. Please.

He swayed and caught the wall.

His insides felt like they were turning to liquid honey. His breaths started coming slower, deeper, despite his rising panic. Everything that touched his skin seemed to hum.

The ifrit was watching him closely. When it spoke its words were slow, measured. "Ỳ̰͖͞o̵̤̪͜ụ̯͟͜'̸̮̫͞r̴̥̱͝e̛̮͖͞ ̵҉͔͖g̷͔̪͢o̵̢͇̦i̵̸̦̫n̷̞̭̕g̸͔̝͝ ̸̳̥͢ṱ̡̳͝o̢͏̺̹ ̸̗̗͢ḅ̼́͝e̳͍͜͜ ̛̣͉́a̧҉̥͖l̴̬̘͠r̷̝͇͠i̶̷̙̥g҉͙̼͢h̴̨̹͈ț̴̳͠."

"What's going to happen to me?" His tears began to fall.

The ifrit let out another of those rockslide-purrs, and reached out to grab the end of the cot. It began to slowly rock the bed back and forth.

Nadeem shuddered. His grip on the sheets went knuckle-white as the cot swayed, trying to keep himself upright. But soon the waves of dizziness were overpowering. He lost his balance and suddenly found himself curled on his side. The world was spinning, and it only worsened when he tried to get back up.

The motion turned the buzzing of his head into an almost-euphoric dizziness. Nadeem could barely open his eyes, even to try to find the ifrit again when it spoke.

"A̴̗̮͘ļ̮̰͘l̶̼̺͠ ̢̢̼͚ỳ̧̜͔o͖̯͠͞u͏̣̺͠ ̡̲̪͞h̭̲͞͡a̛̙͕͢v҉͇̩͡e̢̧̞͈ ̴͏̦̝t̴̟̲͡o̸̢͖̣ ͏͎̦͠d̴̢̘̘o̸̹͈͞ ̛̺̼͢i̛̖̠͡s̀҉̮͕ ̵͈͈͟r͓̣͘͞e̡̦̘͝l̷̶͈̜a̴҉̹̺x̣̞͢͞."

A hand closed around his throat. It applied no pressure, just pressed him down into the sickly softness of the blankets. More hands captured his wrists, tangling them together as it held them above his head.

"No!" Nadeem sobbed, trying in vain to kick up into its stomach. His uninjured foot caught on its hip, but all the strength in Nadeem's body was not enough to pry it off of him. "Get off of me!"

"S̶̤h̢͕hh͏̭." This close, the purr made his head swim. The ifrit's skin was fever-warm, steady and unyielding even as he arched off the bed trying to escape. "T͏̦͚͝h̨̖̬͢a̴̧͇̼t̸̖͓̕'͖͈̕͟s͏̷͇ͅ ̨͙̥́i̸͏̲̹t̶̳̜͘.̵҉̙̹ ̵̡̖̟Ṭ̴̡̹i͝҉̦͇r̷̜̪͠ȩ̗͈͞ ͎̩͜͞y̮̲̕̕o̷̩͙͡u̡͕̬͠r̸̳̮͠ş͈̰̕e҉̸̠̘ḽ͔́͘f̸̡̪ͅ ̷̧͇̹o͇̪͢͟ų̻͙͠t͎̫͜͝."

"Please," he sobbed. Gods, please, he couldn't survive this again.

Another hand shifted down to press his leg against the sheets, closing around the ankle of his bad foot. It held him there, even as the rest of him twisted and thrashed.

"Ị̢͚͘ ̼͑́n̴̺ͥe̵̪̓e̷̗̍d̡̅ͅ ̒҉̖t̛͇͗o̷͙͋ ͚̌͜ṱͫ̀a̖ͥ́k̴͇͋e͌͏͚ ̲̌͜aͩ͏͇ ̴̉ͅl̨̙ͤơ͚ͨo̹ͭ̕k͇̉́ ̸̪̋å̷͈t̶̹͌ ̧̫ͭṯ͊͘h̥̽͡a̶̹̿t̤͆͞ ̢̻̑f̣̍̕ỏ̧̰ȍ̻͝ť̰͡,̛̺̉ ̨̜͊An̺̄͘d͇̑͞ ̶̳͑b̴̩̌o͇ͮ͠t̝̏͘h͔̍͠ ̴͇̚o̪̍͞f̡̗̀ ̡̖ͭù͚͟ṣ̅́ ͖̓͢k̶̍ͅň̶̫ö̱́̀ẉ̷͂ ̣̈͘y̺ͦ͜o̝̒͡u͍̿́ ̧͍̋á̺͠ŕ̨̖ȩ̪ͥń̶̮'̼̓̕ṯ͋͝ ̸̣̀g̜̅͝o̲̅͞i̸̯͒n̶͍̋g̓҉̻ ̱̅̕t̛̥ͣo͖ͧ͝ ͔ͦ͡l̮̈͡e̴͚̿t̫͋͟ ͚̉͝ḿ̠͢ḙ̵̓ ̢̹̽d̺̎̕ọ̈͘ ̪͛͢i̩̾͡t͙ͥ́ ̪ͪ͟w̸̤ͩi̶̼͑ḻ̶͗l͍̓͢i̫̅͞n̷̮̚g̝ͭ̕ĺ͕̚y̶͔͒."

Nadeem's strength was failing him. His nails dug into the hand at his wrist. But if it noticed the little pinpricks, it didn't even react.

Through his tears he could still make out its face. Just watching him. The utter surety that it had him where it wanted him and there was nothing he could do.

"T̴̖̜̍̈́͢h͈̮͊̌͟͞e̛̗͙͂͗͡r̺̠̂̂͜͡e̷̤̹͌ͮ͜ ͒̉͏̛̫̠y̡̲̘ͨ͒̀o̗͇̾̚͢͠u̸̲̘͋̀͝ ̡̪͇̈̓͢ğ̢̼̗̚͡ő̧̹̫̄͝.̴͔̞̌ͧ͝ ̳̹̃ͦ́͡Ǵ̨̠̟́͟i̢͉̳͊̓̀v̨̗̳ͪ̉͝ḛ̻̓̑́͝ ͒͌͘͏̗̰ṷ̞͐ͣ͘͞p̢̘͕̈́͛͟."

He started to sag in its hands, crying helplessly. All he could do was press himself down into the sheets, keeping his leg against its stomach to try to keep it away.

"T̴͈̩͞h̡͏̹̩á̱̻͘t̪͕̕͢'̡͈̼͠s̨̢͚ͅ ̶̟̯́b̶̛̼̩e̡͙͓͡t̜̞̀͟ṱ̵͔͟e̶̪̠͡r̜̤͟͠.̪̳̕͘ ̨̭̟̕B̲̬̀̀ŗ̞͖͢e͖̱̕͟a̵̛̯͍t̵̗̯̀h̸̘͖͘e̴̷̮̼."

His mind was a mess. His thoughts were coming in fragments, golden warmth thrumming across his skin. The coil of sensation in his stomach had only settled deeper, despite every other part of his mind trying to shove the feeling away. He couldn't think.

The hand on his ankle shifted. The ifrit leaned back, keeping him still while it murmured something and turned his foot to look at the wound underneath.

The flesh around the wound was puffy and red, like angry gums around a missing tooth. The edge had a thin line of white and sallow green where swelling turned to wound, a mess of dried red and black that smeared up between his toes. Sand was caked into dried blood, the very center of the wound still weeping red where he had damaged it in his struggles.

His ankle was swollen, too. He had twisted it when he had fallen, and he hissed as the ifrit turned it carefully in its hand. It almost looked like it winced in sympathy.

"Y̴̛̤̰o̵̵̥̝u̵̫̹͢'̨̢̩͙ŕ̵̘͕è͏͉̦ ̧̙̼͡l̴͏͖̻ừ͍͎c̴̜͖͝k̨͔̀ͅỳ҉̭̬ ̛҉̦͚ỵ̨̫͢o҉̧̦̯ų̨̲̱ ̷̡͍̰d͇͢͠ͅi̢̡̺̰d̮̹͢͞n̛̖̠͝'͏̮͇̕t̨͏̳̰ ̷͔̞͢b̥͚̀͠r̖̠͜͞e̸̡̬̥á̻͓͘ḱ͉̱͝ ̭̪́̀í̞͉͡t̛̝͉̕,̵̬̜͡ ͘҉͇̣ļ̩̞͠i҉̷̪͎ṭ̸̮́t̢҉̺̼ḽ̸͜ͅę̧̭͚ ̨̺̖͢o̷̳̰͞n̻̤͢͟e̸̝̤͞.̹̟͠͠ ̧̝̞͝Y͏̦̞͘o̯̬͟͞u̧͏̗͍'̴̣͔͠v̨̡̲̯e͉̱̕͟ ̷̵͚̘b̶̺͚͞e̴̗̣͞e̳̣͟͞ņ̵̤̠ ̶̫̩́h͏̛̬̝i̧̢͎̼d̨̫͓͞i̴̶̙̜n̵̢̪̼g̴̺̠͞ ̘̤͜͡t̶̕ͅͅh̵҉̥̜i̵̝̭͝s̨̩̼͢ ̨̨̖̳b̷̡͈͈e̴̪͔͞t̷̶̠̞t̵̖̹͞e͔̭͢͞r̛̫̯͟ ͏͙̯͟t̷͉̠̕h̟͈̕͠à̳̣̕n҉̷̣͙ ̴̤̖͞I̢͎͚͞ ̛̟̗̀t̶̸̘͎h̛̩͈́o̷̯̹͝u̧҉̦̻g̢̲̲͠h̷̥̝͟ț̻́͟ ̢̲̹͞ỳ̯̦͘o̸̸̪̖u̥̩͟͡ ͍̜͘̕ç̹̰͞o̵̴̹̝ư̖͖͟l̶̲̮͘d͏̶̰̺." It sighed, "I̜̙͝͡f̷̠̝͡y̵̸̲̥a̡̨̤̬ạ̷͡ͅ ̢̳̲͠i̸҉̟͖s̴̵̥̝n̸̢͍ͅ'̷̵̗̮t͏̬̬͞ ̷̦̜͘g̴̛̬ͅo̸̘͟ͅi̧̺͎͟n̶̴̲͉g͙͜͟ͅ ̧͙͈͟t̕҉̦̣o̶̗̟͠ ̡̥̫̀b͎͈́͟e̶̪̙͟ ̴͏͚̦h͎̼͟͠à̙̞͝p҉̳̪͟p̛͏̤͓y̫̜͢͝ ̦̱́͝w̡҉̙̺h̠͎́͟ę͎͙͜n̨̮͕͟ ̶̢͉͕h̸̨͉̘e̸̞͙͝ ̴̘̼͡s͠҉̯̖é͇̫͠e͖͖͝͠s̷̱͞ͅ ̶̮̳͡t̛̛̝͍h̢̲͓͢e̸̶̘̞ ̨̛͉̳ș̸̛̺t̲̣͠͞a̵̝̫͞t̡̛̩̟e͞͏̗ͅ ̡̯͙̀ó̢̟̘f̻̟̕͞ ̀҉̖͍i͔̘͞͠t̢̢̩ͅ."

Nadeem was trembling.

"̡̭̹͢N҉̵͙̞ò͖̘͘,̳̯͟͝ ̳̠͢͢y̨͏͔ͅó̴̲͚u̢̹̤͠ ̷̖͘ͅa̵͎͓͡r̸̛̙̻e͏̰̳͠n̡̖̺͟'̷̡̘̯t̨̝̩̀ ̢͚͞ͅg҉͙͡ͅǫ̴̺̗í̡̞̟n̛̞͙͠g̷̯̣͞ ͏͏͖̫t̴̠͇̕ó̳̲͟ ̧͚̩͠l͙͎͢͠i҉̛̻̣k͓̲͞͠e̸҉̱̣ ̶͇̟͟t͏̡̯̻h͏̢̦̜i̶̢̤̺s̛̭̝̀ ̢̡͕̲p̡̨̲̗a͇͍͜͟r̸̼̹͠t̵̶͇̦,̸̧͉̹ ̴͎̺͡e҉̱̳̀į̶͕̻t̩̪́͢h̵̸̲̩e̛̱͚͟r̢͈͕̕.̧̟̙́ ̧̛̟̮B͏̷̮̪u҉̗̼̕t̼͙́͞ ̸̝̗͡ị̵̴͚ṯ͕̕͘ ͏̛̘̥ẁ͔͍͞ì̩͠ͅḽ̜͡͠l̝͓͘͘ ͎̼̕͟b̶͈̮͢e͢҉͚͇ ̥͍́͝o̻̲͢͠v̢̬̪͠e̡͖̜͜r̨҉͎͖ ̵͚̠͠ș̶̢̘o͡҉͉̻o̵̲̦̕ņ̺̟͠." The ifrit lowered his leg back to the cot, looking to his face. Nadeem flinched when it reached down, screwing his eyes shut with a whine as it brushed knuckles down the stubble of his cheek. "W̵͈̣͡e̶̡̪̥'̢͕̼̀ļ̛̠̟l͏̡̙̟ ̷̡̺͍s̶͙͉͝p̵͖͚͘ę҉̳ͅń̴͔̦d̘̱͘͢ ̢̯͙͘ą̼̮͜ ̙͇͡͞f̺̬́͢e̷̷͉͚w̨҉͈̺ ҉͔͠ͅḑ̵̰̬a̷̸̦͔y҉̤̩̕ş̜̜͟ ̢͚̱͡h҉̴̮̖ą̹̖́v҉̩̯͜i̴̵̥̰n̶̛͙̣g̡̪͈͡ ̨͉̣͝ó̷̙͙ù͈̮͠r̦͎̀̀ ̦̮̀͡f̴̛͈̮u̧͓̜͟n̝͇͜͡ ̸͔̠͢w̩̝͘͞i̲̮͟͠t̙̀͘ͅh̨̠̼̀ ̢̤͕͘y̸̴̠ͅo̸̳̜͢ù̵̥͕,̶̺͙͟ ̮͈̀͡ų̸̪͇n̨͕͎͡t̷̳̣́i̠̯͞͞l̶̛̞̠ ̦̰́͢w͓̹͢͟ȩ͏̹̤ ̡͉̜̕f̴̡̼̜i̟̬̕͞n̝͎͢͝d̨̝̮́ ͔̱́͡a̴̻͟ͅ ͇̞̀͞h̨̛̺͓u̶͕̻͘m̨̫̰͞a͞͏̻̻n̢̨͙͖ ̷͏̣̗c̨̳̯͟ì̞͠ͅţ̩̩͢y̴̛̯̥ ͙̳͡͠t̶͏̹̰o̢̜͇͟ ͔̜̀͢l̷͔̝͝e͏̵̲̩a̕͏͚̩v̧̳͕͞e̶͇̼͝ ̴̱͉͘y̯͘͠ͅo͖̖͘͜u͕̣͜͢ ̸̴͓̩i̸̡͕̥n̡̳̱͢.͍̟͘͡ ͉̟͢͝F͏̴̙̗ŗ̺̤͘ó̶̲̼m̶̳̖͘ ̣̫̀͡t̺̘͢͞h̶̪̼͠e̛̼͕͝r̨̪̯͞ę̮̱͠,̨̡̱͈ ̴̧̘̻y҉̣̺͟o͜͏͉͍u̴͉̞̕ ͢҉̥̺c̛̜̹͡a̡̙͙͘n̛͙̪͢ ̶̸̠̜f̢͍̯́i̺̱͟͢n̡͏̫͇d̢͎͞ͅ ̵҉͇̘y͓̝͡͞o̷̜͝ͅu̳̻̕͠r̛͏̱̣ ̨̞̤͠w̶̠̙͢ą̵̗̱y̴̨̳̺ ̵̝̠͟b҉̩̝͜a̱͟͡ͅc̶̸̗̝k̛͍̩͡ ͏̢̤͙t҉̹̺̕o̷҉̦̰ ̨͓͖̀w̸̱̗͢h̢̨̲͙ȩ̢̙̜r̢̗̥̀e̴̛̞͈v̵͔̰̀e͓͉͜͠r̢̡̫̗ ̯͔̕͠y̶͉͈̕o̸̘̣͝ú͉̜͢ ̘̩͠͠c҉̗̙͞a̶̯͈̕l̺̥͜͠l̮̲̀̕ ̸̧͇͕h͞҉̟͍o̵̙͔͡m҉̧̱̙e̴̼̖͠."

He took a shuddering breath. The touch sent ripples of sensation blooming across his skin, leaving him breathless.

"I̴̬͎͟'̵͔̺͟m̷̨̤̝ ̷̲̮̕s̨̪̘͘o̷̲̞̕r͠͏̝͉ŗ̛̯̜y̛̛̱͓ ̵̪̳̕f̹͕́͡o̷̴͍̼r͓͈͝͞ ̵͕̳͠h̢̖̻́o̶͍̭͞w̶̧̙̦ ̴̨̺̜ḿ͏̞͚u̧̙̪͝ç̳̜͟h̵̶͉̯ ̗͇̀͡t̙̖́͠h̝̝́̀i̴͉̠͡s҉̡̬̭ ̸̵͇̭ị̵̴̩s͍̬͞͠ ̶̢̟͈g̷͏͉͈o̴̷̻ͅi̵̬͙͜ņ̵̪̣g҉̰͚͝ ͖̣̕͢ţ̳̗͞o͘҉͓͕ ͏̨̬̻h̸̫͔͘u͢͏̯̼r̢̟̗͘t̵̯̣͠."

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mariacallous · 6 months ago

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A new lawsuit brought against the startup Perplexity argues that, in addition to violating copyright law, it’s breaking trademark law by making up fake sections of news stories and falsely attributing the words to publishers.

Dow Jones (publisher of The Wall Street Journal) and the New York Post—both owned by Rupert Murdoch’s News Corp—brought the copyright infringement lawsuit against Perplexity today in the US Southern District of New York.

This is not the first time Perplexity has run afoul of news publishers; earlier this month, The New York Times sent the company a cease-and-desist letter stating that it was using the newspaper behemoth’s content without permission. This summer, both Forbes and WIRED detailed how Perplexity appeared to have plagiarized stories. Both Forbes and WIRED parent company Condé Nast sent the company cease-and-desist letters in response.

A WIRED investigation from this summer, cited in this lawsuit, detailed how Perplexity inaccurately summarized WIRED stories, including one instance in which it falsely claimed that WIRED had reported on a California-based police officer committing a crime he did not commit. The WSJ reported earlier today that Perplexity is seeking to raise $500 million is its next funding round, at an $8 billion valuation.

Dow Jones and the New York Post provide examples of Perplexity allegedly “hallucinating” fake sections of news stories. In AI terms, hallucination is when generative models produce false or wholly fabricated material and present it as fact.

In one case cited, Perplexity Pro first regurgitated, word for word, two paragraphs from a New York Post story about US senator Jim Jordan sparring with European Union commissioner Thierry Breton over Elon Musk and X, but then followed them up with five generated paragraphs about free speech and online regulation that were not in the real article.

The lawsuit claims that mixing in these made-up paragraphs with real reporting and attributing it to the Post is trademark dilution that potentially confuses readers. “Perplexity’s hallucinations, passed off as authentic news and news-related content from reliable sources (using Plaintiffs’ trademarks), damage the value of Plaintiffs’ trademarks by injecting uncertainty and distrust into the newsgathering and publishing process, while also causing harm to the news-consuming public,” the complaint states.

Perplexity did not respond to requests for comment.

In a statement emailed to WIRED, News Corp chief executive Robert Thomson compared Perplexity unfavorably to OpenAI. “We applaud principled companies like OpenAI, which understands that integrity and creativity are essential if we are to realize the potential of Artificial Intelligence,” the statement says. “Perplexity is not the only AI company abusing intellectual property and it is not the only AI company that we will pursue with vigor and rigor. We have made clear that we would rather woo than sue, but, for the sake of our journalists, our writers and our company, we must challenge the content kleptocracy.”

OpenAI is facing its own accusations of trademark dilution, though. In New York Times v. OpenAI, the Times alleges that ChatGPT and Bing Chat will attribute made-up quotes to the Times, and accuses OpenAI and Microsoft of damaging its reputation through trademark dilution. In one example cited in the lawsuit, the Times alleges that Bing Chat claimed that the Times called red wine (in moderation) a “heart-healthy” food, when in fact it did not; the Times argues that its actual reporting has debunked claims about the healthfulness of moderate drinking.

“Copying news articles to operate substitutive, commercial generative AI products is unlawful, as we made clear in our letters to Perplexity and our litigation against Microsoft and OpenAI,” says NYT director of external communications Charlie Stadtlander. “We applaud this lawsuit from Dow Jones and the New York Post, which is an important step toward ensuring that publisher content is protected from this kind of misappropriation.”

If publishers prevail in arguing that hallucinations can violate trademark law, AI companies could face “immense difficulties” according to Matthew Sag, a professor of law and artificial intelligence at Emory University.

“It is absolutely impossible to guarantee that a language model will not hallucinate,” Sag says. In his view, the way language models operate by predicting words that sound correct in response to prompts is always a type of hallucination—sometimes it’s just more plausible-sounding than others.

“We only call it a hallucination if it doesn't match up with our reality, but the process is exactly the same whether we like the output or not.”

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