#NON PROFIT FRAUD

[agentfascinateur]

The illegal "spiritual battle" over the US elections

A network of ultrawealthy Christian donors is spending nearly $12 million to mobilize Republican-leaning voters and purge more than a million people from the rolls in key swing states, aiming to tilt the 2024 election in favor of former President Donald Trump. These previously unreported plans are the work of a group named Ziklag, a little-known charity whose donors have included some of the wealthiest conservative Christian families in the nation, including the billionaire Uihlein family, who made a fortune in office supplies, the Greens, who run Hobby Lobby, and the Wallers, who own the Jockey apparel corporation. Recipients of Ziklag’s largesse include Alliance Defending Freedom, which is the Christian legal group that led the overturning of Roe v. Wade, plus the national pro-Trump group Turning Point USA and a constellation of right-of-center advocacy groups.

The reporting by ProPublica and Documented “casts serious doubt on this organization’s status as a 501(c)(3) organization,” said Roger Colinvaux, a professor at Catholic University’s Columbus School of Law.

“I think it’s across the line without a question,” said Lloyd Hitoshi Mayer, a University of Notre Dame law professor.

[codesquire]

There's so much about this which amuses me...

[bethanydelleman]

What about the Austen heroes?

So the current professions of the Austen heroes are Trust-Fund Baby (Darcy, Bingley, Knightley, Colonel Brandon) and clergyman (Tilney, Ferrars, Bertram) and of course, naval officer (Wentworth).

Darcy's personality and insane degree of stable wealth makes his character pretty hard to write without him being a trust fund baby. So I will not assign him a profession, he's managing the generational family wealth.

George Knightley - runs a small but successful factory that is basically the only industry in his small town. Cash poor because he's always reinvesting in the company. Robert Martin is the floor manager.

Charles Bingley - his father struck it rich in the dot.com era and then died. He's inherited most of the fortune. Has no idea what to do with it, so he's been in university for 6 years.

Colonel Brandon - did four tours in Afghanistan before his brother died and he took over the indebted family chain of hardware stores. He's finally gotten the finances straightened out and the chain is once again profitable (with 100% less tax fraud).

Edward Ferrars - went to a super prestigious university because his mother donated to it, has a degree in Environmental Science much to her chagrin. Wants to work at a non-profit or do his PhD but his mom won't help him with the cost of living so he lives at home, doesn't work, and is miserable.

Edmund Bertram - clergyman or civil servant

Frederick Wentworth - I'm not sure what to do with him, because he needs an uncertain, dangerous career that can also strike rich, not sure if we have a modern analogue... oh it's athlete. He's an athlete who actually made it big and got rich. You pick the sport.

Henry Tilney - this one is so tricky! Because you see Henry Tilney is a nepo baby, but he seems to actually enjoy his profession. So I guess he has a corporate job at Tilney Inc. but he does like it (despite the CEO)

[euphoricfilter]

Rope Bunny || ‘Helping Hands’ Halloween Special

Pairing: Caretaker! Yoongi x Kindergarten teacher! Reader

Genre: Fluff || Smut || Established Relationship || Non-idol AU

Summary: Yoongi had never been too fond of Halloween. Hated that one tacky day of the year with every fibre of his being. All it takes however, is your little surprise to convince him that maybe, just maybe, Halloween isn't all that bad.

Word Count: 7.3k (i don’t know what happened)

Tags/ warnings: fluff, smut in the forms of: bondage, reader get's tied to the bed, vaginal fingering, penetrative protected sex (because that's cool), slight dacryphilia, playboy bunny costume, implied predator/prey play, implied pet play, aftercare, halloween slander, ew they're still in love

Notes: this can be read as a stand-alone without reading the first part of this mini-series! however you can read ‘helping hands’ here! as minor references are made.

for my love, @4amj3zz who i love with all my heart <3 thank you for the playboy bunny idea!

my full masterlist

+ + +

It was no secret that Min Yoongi hated Halloween. The holiday—if you could even call it that—was a waste of time and money.

Halloween was a poor excuse to spend too much money on tacky decorations, and an easy excuse for candy makers to profit off one singular night each year. Frauds if you asked him.

Yoongi had never understood why parents let their children stumble from door to door in goofy costumes, asking for an inexplainable amount of sugar from strangers; the whole agenda a little backwards when ‘stranger danger’ is drilled into our heads as children. And now, kids have enough candy to give themselves a sugar high until Christmas rolls around, and an equally questionable Santa Clause fills their stockings with enough chocolate until the easter bunny comes.

He never understood why parents would buy a new, tacky looking costume each year when maybe they could be saving up for their child’s college tuition fees. And don’t get him started on adults dressing up. Min Yoongi was convinced that Halloween was the only night a year adults could dress in skimpy outfits, and no one would bat an eye. And a few too many sleazy men get a couple of hours of eye-candy to keep their imaginations running wild for the next couple of nights.

Now, Yoongi isn’t one to judge what others like to wear. He doesn’t feel it’s fair to judge, when he rotates the same 4 black shirts each week and might change it up with a new colour when you beg him to match outfits. Yoongi’s issue lies with the fact that it was the end of October.

The cusp of winter.

Where each night should be spent sat in front of the heater with stupid amounts of coffee (or in your case, hot chocolate) and a nice, cosy blanket wrapped around both your shoulders while a movie plays as you run your cold toes down his legs.

He wonders if cases of pneumonia or frostbite are at an all-time high on the 31st of October with the way some people dress themselves.

However, the absolute bane of Yoongi’s existence is all the pumpkin flavoured crap that nearly every franchise in the country liked to overprice in the month of October.

No, he didn’t want a pumpkin spice latte. No, he didn’t want the pumpkin tart instead of your usual sugared doughnut and his tiramisu.

It was Yoongi’s downfall when he was buying food for Holly, and suddenly the pet shop owner had asked if he wanted pumpkin favoured treats for his dog. Yoongi loved Holly as much as he loved you but he’s more than certain his puppy couldn’t give a flying fuck about a pumpkin flavoured biscuit.

The one thing that Yoongi did like about Halloween, however, was the excuse to watch scary movies. You on the other hand couldn’t stand them, burying your head underneath his arms when anything remotely spooky came up on the TV of an evening. So unfortunately, Yoongi hadn’t gotten his adrenaline rush as of late with a few too many trashy thrillers.  

“How do I look?” you give your boyfriend a twirl, black dress flaring around your thighs prettily.

Yoongi just blinks up at you, trying to ignore the pointed hat you’re wearing that grates at his eyes.

“What are you supposed to be?” he asks, raking his gaze down your body. Any excuse to give you a once-over.

“A witch obviously” you roll your eyes, if the spiderweb tights, hat and cape weren’t enough of a give-away.

“Isn’t that… basic?” Yoongi dares to ask and your shoulders slump forwards.

“Yes, but I don’t think a bunch of 4-year-olds are going to know who I am if I dress up as… I don’t know, MJ”

“MJ?”

“From Spiderman, Yoongi. We’ve watched all 8 movies, plus the animated one”

“If you were MJ does that make me Spiderman?” Yoongi drawls and you sigh.

“No” you shake your head and Yoongi’s eyebrows furrow, “You don’t believe in Halloween, so you don’t get the privilege to be my Spiderman.”

Yoongi scoffs at that, no real venom in his expression as he watches you fix your hair in the vanity mirror.

“Oh” you turn to look at your boyfriend, “Don’t forget to pick up that package at the post office after work today either, okay?”

Yoongi nods, puckering his lips for a kiss. You oblige, leaning down so the brim of your hat brushes the top of Yoongi’s head as your lips press against his own.

“Love you” he whispers, breath fanning your lips in the way where goosebumps prickle the skin of your arms.

“Love you more!” you smile, “And, don’t be late tonight. Remember I have a surprise!” you giggle, and Yoongi would have been a little more worried if you hadn’t been so happy. On more than one occasion you’d tried to surprise your boyfriend; once trying to cook a three-course meal, however you hadn’t known cans can’t go in the microwave. That had led to your boyfriend having to work over the weekend to replace the wretched utility machine.

He smiles as you skip out of the bedroom, chunky boots thumping on the hardwood floor as you flit around the house for anything you may have forgotten last minute. Even though your boyfriend had made sure to pack your work bag the night before, since he knew you could be a little slow in the mornings and he knew you didn’t need the added stress.

<3

Yoongi’s foot taps impatiently, dull pat pat pat of his sneakers bouncing off the walls as he leans against the post office’s desk. Fingers numb as he scrolls through his phone, weather bitter outside the heated post office. The old man that was at front of house had wandered out back to get his package and seemed to be taking his sweet, sweet time riffling through piles of unclaimed mail.

Yoongi’s phone lights up, a message from you; asking what time he would be home because you’d gotten his surprise all ready. And no matter how much Yoongi loved you, he was still a little sceptical of what your surprise could be.

You had never been good at keeping secrets, always blurting out little hints which would evidently lead to him to your little plots, only to act like he never knew what you were up to when the time came for you to surprise him. Because your smile was worth a little acting if it meant he got to see you looking so happy. Like he had been the one to surprise you, and of course he’d reward you with a sweet kiss that always made your cheeks flush the prettiest pink.

[4:56 pm]

My love:

Yoongs how long will you be? I’ve finished setting up your surprise and I’m getting impatient :’(

[4:57 pm]

Yoonie:

Soon, the old guy that works here is slow.

[4:57 pm]

My love:

:(

He should really get someone to help him with all those packages…

Maybe we could help

[4:58 pm]

Yoonie:

You barely have time to take care of yourself. There’s a flyer on the door saying they’re hiring; a few high school kids will probably start applying soon now that the holidays are almost here.

<3

Yoongi takes a look at your package. You hadn’t told him what you’d bought but from the looks of things it was from that little doggy clothing shop you loved. If Yoongi thought he spoiled Holly too much, don’t get him started on you.

He doesn’t bother pulling his keys from the back of his jeans, knowing you were home, instead he knocks.

Only to be answered with silence.

Yoongi knocks on the door again, no stranger to your habit of dancing around the bedroom with your music blasting through his speakers as you tidy up the mess, you’d made during your morning rush.

Only to once again be faced with nothing.

He leans his ear against the door, cold wood numbing his cheek as he narrows his eyes, hoping to hear any sound coming from the apartment.

Assuming the best, he guesses you’d forgotten to pick something up at the shops and decided a little early evening walk was now squeezed into your meticulously planned Halloween schedule.

Get home. Clean while Yoongi picks up package. Cook together. Bathe together. Maybe watch a Halloween movie, only if it isn’t scary. Roast marshmallows on the balcony. Read together. Brush teeth together. Wear matching pjs. Get the fluffy blanket for bed from the dryer. Talk about each other’s plans for tomorrow. Maybe sleep.

Yoongi easily slips his pair of keys from his pocket, the jingling bouncing off the walls of the empty hallway. And he hears the neighbour’s dog bark at the sound.

The lights are on when he pushes the door open with his foot. Your work shoes neatly placed on the rack, an empty space for his own sneakers to sit comfortably beside your own.

“Y/n?” he calls out, kicking the door closed behind him, “You home, my love?”

He hears shuffling from the other room, your silk bedsheets ratting you out that you’re home.

Yoongi dumps the brown box onto the couch, the little pattering of Holly’s feet bringing his attention to the floor as he kicks his shoes off.

Yoongi bends down, pulling a strip of tissue paper from the dog’s mouth. “Gross. You can’t eat that.”

He pokes his head into the kitchen, the dog’s bowl still half full of dinner, so you hadn’t forgotten to feed him. But it seemed his little dog had gotten distracted in the process of his meal, and you may be the main culprit. Yoongi didn’t even know what to think. For the first time since you’d started dating, you had kept a secret, and he didn’t have an inkling of what it could be.

Were you proposing?

That was meant to be his job. He had the ring and everything.

He just hadn’t worked up the guts to ask you yet.

What if you really were proposing? Should he say yes and then tell you he also had an engagement ring? Or should he say no?

That would be stupid.

He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, but he wanted his proposal to be more than perfect.

Not that you wouldn’t make it perfect.

What if he said no and you got the wrong idea?

What if you decided to break up with him?

God knows what he would do if that were to happen.

Maybe you weren’t proposing…

But your surprise.

It wasn’t dinner, he knew that much. You hadn’t set the table, nor was there any food simmering on the stove.

Maybe you’d bought ugly matching pyjamas again.

But what if you were proposing?

He wanders towards your bedroom; a slice of dim orange lamp light coats the floor in its heady glow from where the bedroom door is slightly cracked open.

And Yoongi stands there for a moment as he hears you hum to yourself; and his new assumption is that you’re probably lying-in bed as you watch something from your phone, headphones plugged in as he hears nothing more than your voice.

Maybe you’d forgotten all about your little surprise and although you’d been hyping him up all day, with teasing glances across the cafeteria at lunch, and light brushes of your fingers over his chest as he passed you in the halls; Yoongi would much rather you have forgotten your little proposal if it meant he could be the one to get down on one knee.

However.

Yoongi feels as though time stops when he pushes the bedroom door open.

There you are, sprawled out on your stomach, legs kicking up behind you as you rest your chin the palms of your hands. Open book long forgotten, the pages flipping closed by themselves. You hadn’t bothered to crack the spine, design too pretty to tamper with, and although later you’ll whine about losing your page, maybe even blame it on your boyfriend, right now the look on Yoongi’s face was funny enough for you not to care. Whatever little love story you’d been invested in suddenly meaningless as you look into Yoongi’s eyes, love and lust mingled into one as he stares at you, mouth agape.

And you wonder if you’d ever seen Yoongi make such an expression during the course of your relationship.

It’s not often you splurge on an outfit for the bedroom; truthfully Yoongi had never been all that bothered. You could be wearing a chunky sweater and sweats for all he cared, and he would still get bricked up at just the thought of you, with what you hide beneath layers of clothes. Though, it was never an unwelcomed surprise when you did choose to go and buy something that makes you feel a little prettier than usual.

“Is that a playboy bunny costume?” he gapes, eyes glued to the delicate black ears that sit prettily atop of your head. Frilly little collar and bow snug around your neck with matching little cuffs that encase your pretty wrists. The epitome of sex. All his. And god, did Yoongi love you.

He thinks you put all the other playboy bunny models to shame as you smile up at him, warm orange glow cast over your face in a way that makes Yoongi think you look almost angelic. Almost, if it weren’t for the skimpy little outfit you had on, that did wonders to highlight every part of your body that Yoongi loves most. Though he supposes it covered your pretty little pussy too much for his liking, nothing his fingers can’t fix.

“Yep!” you smile, “Surprise!” your radiant smile a little too innocent for what was about to happen.

Yoongi opens his mouth, only to close it. His extensive vocabulary, years of studying a thesaurus for lyrics that flow like poems suddenly evaporating to nothing more than the image of you dressed so prettily in his bed.

His eyes flit back up to your ears, lacy and black and they just looked so perfect on you. And it leaves Yoongi wondering if some part of him liked your little bunny ears more than he should, something primal vibrating in his chest with the need to just defile you, with how soft and round and absolutely perfect you look, a pretty little bunny all his for the taking.

“Did I really make you speechless?” you ask, eyes wide with wonder and Yoongi can only be baffled at how good you’d been able to keep this a secret.

Yoongi had always been a man of few words, and over time you’d been good at deciphering his wants without him having to open his mouth but this, this Yoongi, whose head looked empty apart from you, was something new.

“Seems so” he takes a few steps towards the bed, unintentionally hesitant as he wonders where to touch, “Oh fuck—” he groans, head tipping back, “is that a tail?” he gapes, shameless as he watches your butt wiggle. Hand pulling his jeans away from his crotch, blood rushing south as he just stares. Enamoured by the little ball of fluff that sits perfectly above your pert behind.

“It’s really soft. Wanna touch?” your index finger toys with your bottom lip, shiny with gloss and little plumper from where you’d been biting it.

Yoongi kneels on the edge of the bed, tips of his fingers brushing over the faux fur tail. His hands trail downwards, index finger running over your covered core; feeling it pulse as he applies a little more pressure. Chocked groan catching in his throat as he feels the material dampen under his careful touch.  

“Was this your idea?” He asks, ignoring your evident frown when he pulls his hand away from where you needed it most. Instead choosing to run it through his hair, grown out from when you’d first started dating, and perfect for you to pull when he makes home between your thighs.

“Someone at work brought up the idea” you tell him honestly, legs still kicked up behind you; the flex of your thighs entirely mesmerising to Yoongi that you can only wonder if your boyfriend was actually listening.

“You didn’t have to do this you know” Yoongi leans down to run his nose along the length of your jaw, the vanilla perfume he’d bought you on your birthday making him smile. Though you didn’t smell like him, he had been the one to pick out the scent, so he supposes it sates that little possessiveness he has over you when you aren’t together.

“Do you not like it? I thought it would be fun, especially since it’s Halloween” you say, albeit a little distracted as Yoongi presses open mouth kisses along the apples of your cheek, painting them ruby red with your own natural blush. Yoongi’s kisses always did make you flustered, he had never been very shy with his tongue, and he made sure you knew it.

“I like it. Fuck that—I love it. I just don’t want you doing anything you’re uncomfortable with” he whispers, continuing his onslaught of wet kisses, though he now trails them down the length of your bare neck. Addicted to the taste of your skin, making sure it glistened with his saliva.

“I’m okay with it. Made me feel pretty and sexy” your mouth falls open as his teeth nip your skin, red and purple roses blossoming as he sucks on the skin of your neck, painting you like an artist would a canvas.

“You’re always pretty and sexy” Yoongi grumbles, pushing himself to sit. And if he pretends not to notice the way you trail after him, that’s his own secret. The two of you like magnets, hard to pull away once pushed so close.

You follow Yoongi in sitting up, now giving your boyfriend a full view of how your little playboy bunny costume pushes your breasts together.

Yoongi swallows thickly, tongue coming to wet his lips as his fingers itch to touch you. He pulls away when he’s nothing more than inches away from touching your heated skin, and your shoulders drop at that. Pitiful pout tugging at your lips as he shuffles off the bed eagerly.

“Wait here” your boyfriend tells you, and you take a peek at his steadily growing erection as he scuttles towards the closet.

“What’re you looking for?” you ask, leaning back on your arms as you watch Yoongi rummage around for a certain box. Your fingers trail down the length of your body, index finger toying with your clit over the thin cottony fabric. You couldn’t help it that Yoongi had riled you up, hole clenching, begging to be touched, filled, you’d take anything just to have that sweet release that taunts you while your boyfriend shoves box after box and piles of clothes out of his way, in looks for something.

“Some ropes for my little rope bunny” he mutters, patience steadily growing weary the longer he’s away from you, watching as you play with yourself from his peripherals. Yoongi think’s all coherent thoughts are slowly trailing down to his dick, throbbing almost painfully in his jeans as you continue to squirm under the careful touch of your fingers.

“They’re on the top shelf. Velvety box”

“Thanks” your boyfriend throws a soft smile over his shoulder, you feel your own lips tug up at that.

“Hey! No touching” he points an accusatory finger at you, eyes trained on your hand that you grind against.

It had been surprising, how open about sex you had been once you’d gotten closer, more comfortable with Yoongi. And he thinks you must be the horniest person he knows. You’d been shy, a little reserved about being so intimate with him that it was beyond a surprise when you’d gotten comfortable enough to touch yourself in front of Yoongi without a care in the world. He never minded, always eager to please you sexually, and he felt proud even, that the two of you had progressed so much in your relationship.

“Can’t help it” you giggle, falling back onto the bed as Yoongi brings the box back over towards you.

You feel his fingers replace your own, tugging the crotch of your costume to the side to side a finger through your slit, your cheeks heating red at the lewd squelch. Your thighs twitch at that, hips bucking to try and get Yoongi to push at least a finger inside of you.

Your boyfriend, however, seems to have other plans, pulling his hand away from your pulsing core. Instead, he flips open the lid of the box, neatly wound coils of rope lined delicately inside. He’d indulged, buying a plethora of colours to spoil you with when you wanted to be tied up.

Your boyfriend had gotten good at cuffing you to the bed with ropes, had practiced over and over after you’d confessed one night you liked the idea of being completely at his mercy. Begging him to at least let you touch him while he makes you cum. Something about Yoongi being a little mean in bed always riled you up, your cunt shiny with arousal as he plays around with your body a little.

“Arms up, baby” he nods his head towards the head of the bed, “Nothing too crazy today” he reassures when you scoot your way up the bed, head resting comfortably on a couple of Yoongi’s pillows as he shuffles up the bed.

He’d watched so many videos online, making sure that the first time the two of you tried playing with ropes there was no chance he would hurt you in the process. The product of his practice showing as he cuffs you to the head of the bed with ease, looping the ropes expertly around your wrists before he weaves them between the bars of the headboard, chunky knot keeping you attached to the head of the bed. He slips two fingers between the ropes and your wrist to ensure it wasn’t too tight and your skin wouldn’t be nicked or burnt in the process.

You watch him bite his lip, friction of his jeans against his erection sending a jolt of pleasure up his spine. Your boyfriend’s head tipping back to ride out the shuddering arousal that wracks his body.

You tug at your restraints, checking if they would hold, “Loose enough?” Yoongi asks, and you nod, “Words, darling”

“It’s good” you whisper, breath getting caught in your throat at the deepening lust in Yoongi’s eyes as you lay sprawled beneath him. Left to writhe under his hands, completely at his mercy.

“And you remember your safe word?”

“Red”

“Good girl” he throws his head back, palming over his jeans to alleviate some of the discomfort, underwear starting to soak through with precum.

“Can you get a condom?” Yoongi asks as he unzips his jeans, sigh of relief tipping off the ledge of his lips as the pressure on his cock is alleviated.

“No, not really” you snort, and Yoongi looks up at you, mouth dropping open. If he wasn’t mildly embarrassed, he may have started drooling a little at the image of you laid perfectly for him, ever so pretty as you wait patiently. Your core glistening in the lamp light, hole winking rhythmically, calling your boyfriend to sink his hard cock into your tight heat.

“Sorry” he grumbles, tugging his jeans off, throwing them somewhere behind him before leaning across your body to pull open the drawer of his nightstand. He’s glad you’re tied up, little velvet box shoved to the forefront of the drawer next to the box of condoms and he can only thank his lucky stars you’re unable to see it.

“Can you take this off” you toe at his hoodie, exaggerated frown tugging at your lips. Growing restless as you boyfriend fiddles with your condom stash.

Yoongi leans down to kiss your pouty lips, “not fair you’re still basically dressed” he whispers, pressing another kiss to your lips.

“Not my fault you got ahead of yourself and got the ropes out” you smile as he presses another kiss to your lips, revelling in the feeling of your minty breath fanning his skin.

“Couldn’t help it” he tells you as he pulls his hoodie and shirt over his head, leaving him in nothing more than his boxers, “Looked too pretty to let you hop off”

You ogle at his bare skin, so smooth, begging you to mark him up.

Yoongi had always had soft, milky skin, pretty and smooth and perfect for you to press kisses down his stomach as your fingers trace his happy trail, a pathway to what hides in his pants. A part of his body that was yours, somewhere no one else would ever get the pleasure of seeing. Or having the pleasure of touching.

Your eyes widen at that, “Are you into like predator, prey play?” you gape, wad of slick seeping from your folds at the prospect of your boyfriend being into something so… primal and raw. By no means was he vanilla but this came as a surprise to even you.

“No” your boyfriend laughs, fingers tugging down the neckline of your top to free your breasts, low moan rumbling up his throat as they bounce.

He leans down, tongue laving up your right nipple with spit before his teeth tug at them, intent on making them red and puffy and ever so pretty and sensitive. You let out something akin to a squeak, surprised by the jolt of that delicious pleasurable pain that jostles down your spine straight into your core.

“Feels like it” your mouth falls open, breathy moan dripping off your tongue like sweet honey as Yoongi presses a wet kiss to your neglected nipple, making sure it shines in the bedroom’s lamp light.

“I’m sure it’s something we can look into” you feel his warm breath fan against your skin as he talks. Goosebumps prickling in its wake.

Your hips lift off the bed when you feel your boyfriend’s greedy fingers push the fabric of your costume aside that covers where he wants you most, cotton fabric brushing against your clit, a lick of pleasure kicking your hips up, knee knocking against Yoongi’s stomach. He slips a finger into your awaiting hole, groaning against your neck as he gently thrusts it into you, velvet walls pulling him in.

“Another one, please” your hips buck in rhythm with his fingers, a second finger easily sliding into you. You feel a dribble of arousal push out of your hole as Yoongi continues to increase the pace of his fingers, determined to find that little sweet spot that’ll make you see stars.

“Ah” you jolt forwards, teeth catching your bottom lip to subdue any more moans, something so embarrassing about the borderline pornographic sounds that tumble from your lips in quick succession.

“I wanna hear you, darling” Yoongi pushes himself up to meet your eyes, determination etched in his brows as he soaks in your pleasure.

He slips his fingers out of your cunt, kissing away your frown as he haphazardly tugs his underwear off. Beyond the point of caring for foreplay, his cock pulsing as it slaps against his stomach, pearly beads of precum staining his skin clear as he reaches over to grab the condom, he’d dropped to sate your needy cunt.

“I love you” he reminds you as his deft fingers tear the foil wrapper open, and you don’t care to look where he throws it as you watch him pump his cock a few times before he rolls the rubber down his shaft.

You lick your lips, Yoongi’s mouth tugging into a cocky smirk as he catches it from the corner of his eye.

You’d never been a big fan of male genitalia, something unappealing about them. However, in all your years of living, Yoongi may have the prettiest cock to ever grave this earth. Curved just right that it nudges that little sweet spot inside of you, girthy enough that you can feel the stretch as he pushes into you.

“Like what you see, little bunny?” he taunts, hand coming to wrap around his thick cock, tipping his head back as he languidly strokes himself; a shame you couldn’t touch him really.

You tug at the ropes that keep you bound to the bed, a pathetic whine falling off your lips that sends arousal straight to Yoongi’s cock, causing it to twitch in his palm.

“Fuck, doll. I could get off right now, and you would have to watch”

You stare at your boyfriend, refusing to look past his waist as he continues to jack himself off, only hoping your eyes could convey just how much you needed him.

“I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me what you want” Yoongi’s voice comes out gravelly, another wad of your arousal dribbling down onto the sheets.

“Fuck me. Please Yoongi, fuck me” your hips roll upwards, arms tugging at the ropes, anything to get some sort of friction.

Yoongi takes a moment to look at you, the epitome of sin laid out all for him. Your nipples still shining with his spit, your cunt glistening with your own arousal, pitiful as it had slicked up from a few heated kisses and a couple of fingers teasing you. Your little bunny ears lay a little askew from where you’d been writhing around, desperate for some form of release. However, Yoongi liked to tease, liked to make the build-up to your orgasm worth it.  

“I was thinking of cumming on those pretty tits of yours” he drawls, thumb brushing over the head of his cock, thighs clenching with pleasure.

Your eyes turn teary at that, and Yoongi thinks that by some miracle his dick hardens just a little more, “Doesn’t look like you like the sound of that” he frowns, mocking you.

“Yoongi please” you sniffle, and your boyfriend would have been worried by the pearly little tears that cascade down your cheeks if he didn’t know you liked to be teased a little, your safe word was there for a reason.

“Please what, doll? I’m not a mind-reader”

“Please fuck me, it hurts” your hips buck up into nothing; another pitiful snivel at that, your fingers taking a-hold of the ropes around your wrists, “wanna touch you, please Yoonie”

“Yeah?” he asks, and you nod.

Yoongi leans down, pressing a warm kiss to the apple of your cheek before he lowers his lips to yours. You think you can taste your salty tears on his lips, his tongue licking up into your mouth when you let out a breathy moan. Yoongi makes light work of toying with your clit, making sure you were slicked up enough to take him.

Two fingers were never usually enough prep for you without there being a little burn on your behalf, but he felt a little mean today, pent up frustration from a long week at work. And he knew you liked to feel the stretch, having confessed during your first time together that you didn’t mind him being a little rough; encouraged it even.

“Please, please, please” you whisper into his mouth as he moves himself over you, pulling your thighs so they rested over his own, your restraints pulling taught as he moves you further down the bed.

“Okay, my love. Gonna fuck you now, okay?” he asks, running his hands over your thighs.

“Yes. Yes please” your thighs twitch in anticipation.

You watch Yoongi as he lines his length up with your hole, dragging the head through your slit to lube up his cock before he gently pushes in. His mouth falls open as you let out a breathy moan, thighs pulling him closer as he slips further into you.

“Slowly, darling. I don’t want to hurt you” he holds his hips in place, shallowly thrusting to help you accommodate his size.

“I’m okay, please—I need more” you shake your head, bunny ears barely holding on as your back arches, another attempt to get Yoongi to hurry up and move. He relents, hips kicking forwards to thrust the rest of his length into you. You moan, arms tugging to try and touch your boyfriend, only to feel another wave of tears coat your cheeks as you can’t hold him.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Forgot I can’t hold you” you tell him and Yoongi chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss to each of your cheeks.

“Want me to untie you?” he asks, running his nose along the wet skin of your jaw.

You stay silent for a moment, before giving him a simple nod.

“Please”

“Anything for you, my love” he smiles, and you feel a little less distressed as he unknots your restraints.

Yoongi inspects your wrists, a little red from where you’d tugged a little too hard but nothing a little soothing cream couldn’t fix after he’s finished with you.

“Ready now?” he asks, and you’re surprised he hadn’t slipped out of you yet.

You nod.

“Words, baby” he reminds, and you scrunch your nose up at that.

“Ready, please fuck me now”

He laughs at that, pulling his hips back before thrusting back into you. You scramble to hold onto him, nails digging into the clear canvas of his back, your lust and love written in the red marks that paint his skin, matching your own art that he’d bitten and sucked onto your own precious body.

Yoongi’s head falls into the crook of your neck, hips relentless as he continues his onslaught of thrusts, crude slapping of skin on skin dulled out by your own staccatos of breathy ‘ah ah ahs’ filling the room as Yoongi harmonises with his own throaty groans. Practically folding you in half as your thighs squeeze your breasts together.

“Gonna come. Cum with me” he moans, angling his hips to try and find your sweet spot.

“There, there, there” you tell him, voice pitching higher as your body jolts up the bed. Bunny ears long forgotten as they lay abandoned on your pillow.

Yoongi pushes himself up to watch your face, breasts catching his attention as they bounce in time with his thrusts. “I love you so much” he groans, snapping his hips upwards.

He leans down, spit dribbling onto your right nipple before he leans down and takes the sensitive skin between his teeth.

“Play with yourself, doll” he groans.

Your hand trails between your bodies, slicked with sweat as you gather your own arousal onto your fingers, bringing it up to circle your clit. Your hips buck up to meet Yoongi’s halfway, your fingers drawing tight circles on your sensitive bud.

“Gonna cum” you tell your boyfriend, continuing your onslaught on your clit, pleasure licking up your spine.

“Me too. Together, okay?” his pelvis smacking into your own.

You feel his cock twitch, your fingers strumming at your clit in quick circles as you fall over the edge, vision turning white as your fingers cramp up, nails raking over your sensitive pearl, causing your thighs to clench, pulling Yoongi so he was completely buried in your cunt.

Your pulsating walls were enough for Yoongi to cum as well. His hips rolling sluggishly, no rhythm as he helps you ride out your high, his cock starting to soften as your thighs start to shake around his waist.

“Too much” you tell him, hips jolting as his pushes himself all the way in once more before pulling out.

Your chest releases a stuttering breath, skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. Yoongi pulls the condom off, tying it before he throws it in the trash beside the vanity, grabbing a rolled-up towel to help wipe up your slick stained thighs. He’s gentle as he does it, not wanting to push you into the worst kind of overstimulation.

He collapses beside you once he’s done, towel somewhere with his forgotten clothes on the floor, a task he’ll deal with later. “That really was a surprise” he hums.

“It was hard to keep a secret” you say, voice a little hoarse, “The package arrived like a week ago and I wanted to show you so bad”

“Thank whoever at work gave you the idea” he teases, frowning when you bite your lip, a little guilty, “What?” he asks, heart dropping.

“Well, you can thank them.” You give him a little smile, “It was actually Seokjin that said you’d like it”

“Why the fuck is Jin giving you advice on your sex life?” he gapes, arm falling over your waist.

“I really don’t know how we got onto that conversation” you tell him honestly, head tilting cutely in that way it does when you think, “But then he was telling me about that girl he’s dating—the one with kids, and he said he came home from work one day and she was wearing this really pretty lingerie”  

“Where does the playboy bunny come in?” he asks, watching your eyes light up.

You look down at your costume, bunched up around your waist, “Well I then asked Jungkookie what he thought about the idea because you know Jin can be a little… extra; and kook said maybe go for a costume or something for Halloween but make it sexy”

“And he suggested a bunny? That’s fitting” Yoongi snorts, thumb gently rubbing over your bare skin.

“No, it was actually Taehyung. Kookie must have told him about my idea, and he sent me this link to a website, they had some really cool stuff on there, we could try roleplay one day. They had a cat costume as well with little socks that have toe beans and a collar and everything”

“I’m starting to think you’re into pet play” Yoongi teases.

“Oh, no, I meant for you” you giggle, kissing away the crease in his brow as he narrows his eyes.

“Oh yeah!” you push yourself up on your elbows, ignoring how Yoongi watches your breasts bounce with the motion, “I bought Holly bunny ears too. I was gonna show you, but then… yeah” you scrunch your nose up at the state of your costume, “I think this needs a wash before it goes anywhere near the dog”

“Is that what you made me pick up” Yoongi closes his eyes, “the amount of shit that dog has, he doesn’t need bunny ears, darling”

“But I wanted us to match, it was gonna be so cute, but you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants long enough for me to go through with my whole Halloween plan before we had sex. Plus, I bought another little jumper for him as well so it wasn’t a wasted trip before you complain” you huff, and Yoongi can only smile, enamoured that even though you looked moments away from passing out from exhaustion you still seemed to have a little fire lit within you.

“Don’t act like it wasn’t your plan from the start, I bet you weren’t even reading” he accuses, and you gasp, ever the dramatic.

“Was too. And the guy took the girl out on a date before they fucked” you perse your lips.

“Is that so?” he muses, “We can always go on the date now” he peers over at the clock on the wall, “I don’t feel like cooking, it’s too late. Why don’t we order in?” he turns towards you, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, “Then we can catch up on that series you liked the look of”.

“Oh, actually I bought pumpkin spice ramen for us to try”

“You what?” his mouth falls open.

“Huh?” you raise your eyebrows, “talking about the time, I really should pee and then shower, I feel sticky”

“Hey! You know I despise pumpkin spice anything, you’re not getting out of this one” he follows you as you push yourself off the bed, stripping out of your costume. It lays discarded on the floor as you wander into the bathroom, Yoongi not far behind you.

“Yeah, but it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. When are we ever eating pumpkin spice ramen again?”

“Never” his eyebrows crease in mild disgust and if he wasn’t so cute then maybe you would have been a little more offended.

“Exactly, it could taste like ass for all we know” you shrug, “And then you can justify your pumpkin spice hatred”

“It’s already justified” he tells you as he turns the water on, nudging your butt into the shower as he follows behind.

“Whatever, you’re lucky I love you” you muse, turning around, pushing yourself on your tippy toes to press an innocent kiss to his puckered lips.

“Love you too, I’ll make pumpkin soup next weekend”

“So, you do like pumpkin” you gape.

“Yeah” he smiles, “Only when it isn’t a marketing scheme”

You sigh, shoulders falling. “I really do love you” you can’t help the smile that tugs onto your lips.

“I love you more, as a matter of fact” he angles the water so it soaks your body.

“Crazy, science actually says that I love you more”

“Science is usually a bunch of bullshit. I dropped out of college anyways, science means jackshit”

“You’re unbelievable” you lean your head against his chest, heart beating languidly as he reaches over for your shampoo, lathering it up in his hands before he helps you wash your hair.

“Science proves that I may be unbelievable but a certain someone can’t seem to get enough of me” he replies, fingers expertly massaging your scalp.

“I wonder who that is”

“The woman I wanna marry”

Your eyes snap open at that, pulling away from Yoongi as you just stare at him.

“What?”

“What?”

“Marry? Me?” you point at yourself, eyes wide with wonder as your boyfriend shrugs.

“Who else?” he drawls, trying not to smile at the precious image of you, soap sudded hair, cheeks rosy from the steaming hot water, as you look at him like he had been the one to hang the stars in the sky.

“I don’t know, are you secretly dating someone else?” you narrow your eyes, wiping a dollop of shampoo from your forehead as it threatens to fall into your eyes.

“Guess you’ll never know” his lips tug into a smirk.

“This isn’t your proposal, right? I literally haven’t said yes and that’s probably really shitty of me”

“God no” Yoongi groans, “I’m not proposing in the shower, doll. I thought your surprise was you proposing” he admits, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles up your throat.

You slap a hand over your mouth, “I hadn’t even thought of that, holy shit, were you disappointed?”

“What? No. I was relieved” he shakes his head, damp strands of hair stuck to his forehead, “I really want to be the one to propose and I almost shat myself thinking you were doing it tonight”

You snort, “Would you have said yes?” you ask, rinsing your hair, beckoning Yoongi over with a nudge of your head so you could wash him.

“I mean, yeah” he lets out a long breath, “and then told you to take it back so I could ask you instead”

“You really are unbelievable” you shake your head, “Does this mean I should expect a proposal at some point in the near future?”

Yoongi thinks back to that little velvet box that still sits in his nightstand drawer, then he narrows his eyes down at you, “I don’t know, should you?”

You smile up at him, “I love you”

“Jokes on you, I love you more” he turns you away from him, tugging your body wash from the shelf. “Ah Ah” he shushes you when you try and speak, “No more of that, just let me take care of you and then we can try your shitty ramen while we watch corpse bride or some other lame kids movie”

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Persephone's Devotee (Hello, Mr. Monster AU, I)

Master List

Summary: In the age of Spiritualists and magicians, wyrds winds in different ways to link Dream of the Endless and Aisling Hunt. AU of Hello, Mr. Monster beginning in the 1920s. (Alternatively titled 'We All Hate Roderick Burgess')

Warnings: Implied child abuse/neglect, child left to travel solo, manipulating children for profit (non-sexual trafficking)

A/N: Your bird just got diagnosed with a life changing chronic condition (in addition to being put back on depression meds). We'll see how this post does. Have four chapters planned. The last scene is based on personal experiences with heat exhaustion/borderline heat stroke.

Dream’s tools brought many things to Fawney Rig. Wealth and prestige. Admiration, gifts, and influence. Nearly everything the magus wanted and only a fraction of what he thought he deserved. Roderick’s dreams of power and riches drew another tool to his hand, or perhaps Destiny drew the magus to her. The girl who saw strange things in the dark and found answers to strange riddles in her cards. But her wyrd would always draw her to old house and its shrouded dungeon, in any world or time. All because of what the Burgesses kept there.

In the eight years since the fateful evening he summoned and caught one of the Endless, Roderick had become a man much desired. He found himself with an invitation to Lord and Lady Werthrope’s party, a guest of honor at a soiree at their country estate. They promised a night of occult mysteries and foreign prizes. Bits of people and places from across the empire and beyond. Mummies from Egypt and fragments of Greek antiquities to gasp and shriek over with glasses of champagne and brandy.

Roderick carried himself as Lord Werthrope’s equal, and at least for that night, surrounded by ancient mysteries of all kinds, he was seen as such. He was an expert, a guide, someone to hold in reverence rather than an oddity to gawk over. He told them with his bearing, his dignity, and the ruby he wore on a golden chain around his neck. His wishes became dreams and so became real. He stood like a stronger god beside the broken figure of Apollo and scoffed at the mistranslations of texts he’d only ever read secondhand.

Beside the wonders kept under guard at home, what were these paltry things? He could have any of them he desired, and he’d already claimed better.

His sense of superiority carried him through the party’s early hours, moving from acrobats in elaborate costumes, to fire eaters, to ghost stories and flights of fancy spun by swindlers far below his consideration. He had an answer or alternative for everything. And then he met the girl.

She sat at a bare table with no long cloth to hide rolling ankles, clever fishing lines, or knocking accomplices. Only a candle and a deck of cards separated her from the guests, and she’d drawn quite a queue. Her feet didn’t even reach the floor, swinging idly between the legs of the chair as she read the cards of a distraught-looking dandy.

Taking his arm, Lady Werthrope said, “This one you really must see, Magus. She’s made quite the splash in New York and London.”

The Magus offered a tolerant smile. “And what is the trick? Does she blow out the candle? Bend spoons?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” The lady practically vibrated, eager to impress as she led them to the table, scattering the line. “She sees things, and she reads fortunes like no one I’ve ever seen, and I’ve had more than a few pet psychics in my time. This one’s a bit of a sad story.”

The magus clenched his jaw until the muscle in his cheek twitched. He could make whatever sob story the girl shilled much worse. Of all the frauds and liars who feigned knowledge of the occult, Roderick Burgess hated mediums and ghost whisperers the most. The tantalizing promise of connection with Randal – always waved in his face, always ultimately denied – it clawed open the rotting wound in his heart, and he let the poison drip back on any fools who tried his patience.

Let this one try to pull the wool over his eyes, and he’d unmask her in front of this glittering audience. She’d be a penniless sad story when he was through.

“Those people,” the lady said, nodding to a couple flanking the child, “are just the adoptive parents. Saw her family murdered, poor thing. They say that’s what cracked her open to the other world.”

“Do they indeed.” He kept his smile, showing his teeth as his grip flexed over the cane in his free hand. “Then I look forward to her performance.”

The Magus and the lady sat across from the faux family, and the girl looked at them. The people who weren’t her parents did not manage her well, Burgess couldn’t help noting. They’d painted her up with rogue and kohl that made her look even more like a child playing grownup games, and the feather in her headband hung limp and lifeless. She barely managed to grimace through a smile, and she spoke with all the enthusiasm of a student reporting on Ovid to the class.

“What are you asking?” A child’s voice really shouldn’t be so dull. Now that he was nearer, the Magus couldn’t help wondering if she was even younger than he’d first assumed. Not even ten, he thought, and already so exhausted.

It wasn’t what he’d expected. He kept his guard, but curiosity stirred beneath. She was no great performer.

Lady Werthrope leaned forward, eager to take the first reading as the girl shuffled her cards. They were nearly too big for her to manage, but in this at least she clearly had much practice. Her handling of the tarot was the most natural element of her demeanor he’d yet to see.

The lady talked about her dog Moxy, a cocker spaniel much loved and terribly spoiled. It was getting on in years, and, well, ought she prepare for anything dreadful? Only, her friend had just lost her terrier, and she couldn’t chase it from her thoughts…

The cards appeared on the table. One by one. The Six of Cups. The Two of Swords. And, lastly, the Nine of Swords reversed.

“Moxy is well-loved.” The child pointed to the first card. “That’s the foundation. But she’s getting older, and she may go blind eventually. She’s accepted it, though, and you will, too.” She smiled a little, hesitantly, like a pet used to getting kicked when she barked at company. The Magus noted how her gaze flicked to her pseudo-father.

Lady Werthrope clucked and reached over to squeeze the child’s hand. “You’re very honest. And very sweet. Now, won’t you show the Magus what you can do?”

Obediently, she gathered the cards and folded the deck, shuffling them with the fresh energy of her next customer. “What do you want to know?”

Roderick considered. It was a little below him to ask anything specific of a child spiritualist, and he still meant to test her. Hate stirred the old thorn in his heart, and although she didn’t speak with ghosts to earn her bread, he didn’t need to justify himself.

“I’ll leave the question to you.” He squinted in a way that may seem affectionate, but it was only sharp, a predator focusing on little fawn to see how quickly it might run. “What do you see?”

She flinched, lifting her eyes from the cards to meet his in a fleeting, startled glance. Like he’d come near to guessing something she didn’t say out loud. But then she bent over the deck, back to her work as the woman behind her set a hand on her shoulder.

“Be good, Aisling,” the adoptive mother said. “Show the Magus your skills. Don’t embarrass us.”

The child rolled her lip between her teeth, sorting the task quickly. One card. Two cards. Three cards. Tap, tap, tap on the bare table. The Magician’s face glowed in the candle light, and Roderick blinked. A good tarot reader must have good luck in order to draw the appropriate cards – or a marked deck. But he’d watched those little hands like a hawk, and he’d seen nothing. It wasn’t definitive proof by any means, but Roderick Burgess knew himself to be cleverer than a child.

Pointing to the first card, the Magician, the girl said, “You’re the Magus. The Magician is your creation of yourself.” The second card was the Nine of Cups. “Your cups all overflow, and you enjoy the plenty you already have.” And then there was the Ace of Pentacles. Roderick wondered for a moment if she’d laid the cards out of the intended order, but she simply said, “There is new wealth coming. You’ve just found something that will bring you more good fortune. The benefits will grow in the months and years to come.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.” He looked for cracks, and there were many. Fatigue clouded her eyes and weighted the end of every sentence. Not a sign of a lie, though. She couldn’t even pretend to be happy for the audience.

He turned the interaction over in his mind through the rest of the night, wearing away the questions and presumptions like the rough edges of a stone, and by the later hours, he thought he might hold a jewel.

The adoptive parents made themselves easy to find. They hadn’t left the table. Neither had the girl. The lord and lady hired them to entertain, and they stayed at their posts. They’d gathered refreshments, but no cup or plate sat on the table, and he wondered if they had any idea children needed things like water after a long night of speaking with strangers.

Really. The scheme was too transparent. The only lies hid in any manner of affection the parents pretended for the child they claimed.

The Magus marched up to the table, rapping the top with his cane to seize the drowsy girl’s attention. She blinked, started licking her dry lips, caught herself, and pinched her mouth closed with her teeth.

“Aisling, wasn’t it?” He nodded to her, encouraging her to echo the motion. “I would like a word with you. No cards. No reading. Just a conversation. Alone.”

The father stepped forward, ready to defend his meal ticket. “Sir, I’m afraid we can’t just –”

“The girl and I will sit here, at this table,” he tapped it again to make his point, “and you will both stand over there.” The cane swung to point towards the bar, which was well within sight but well out of earshot.

When the man moved to protest again, Roderick pulled out his wallet, and the father’s mouth snapped shut. A few pounds bought the adults’ willing compliance, and they went off in search of drinks with barely a backwards glance. Roderick settled into the seat he claimed earlier, watching the girl squirm. Her hands fluttered restlessly between her lap and the table, clearly used to the cards, uneasy without the form and ritual of a reading to guide the conversation.

That was well enough. Roderick had his own plans.

He signaled one of the roving staff, and as the waiter approached, he ordered, “A lemonade for the young lady.”

With a bow, the server hurried off, and the Magus smiled, lips closed, tilting his head as his legs crossed under the table. He was not a client. He was an adult who noticed, who might be moved to care, and in the few hours of their acquaintance, he was already offering more than anyone else.

“So, you see things?”

Her eyes snapped from him to the people who managed her. Then back again, and down to her lap.

“I’m not supposed to upset people.” She picked at the fringe on the garish frock she wore – entirely unsuited to her age and clearly uncomfortable. “It upsets Mr. and Mrs. Foster when I see things. Or when I talk about them.”

The Magus nodded, unsurprised. He wondered if the people who adopted her even realized her talents were genuine when they snatched her up. They had too many connections and too much showmanship to be anything other than experienced con artists. This little Aisling must be very sensitive, and the truly sensitive didn’t see strictly good, kind, or encouraging things. How she must terrify the fools.

The server returned with a cut crystal glass rattling with ice. The girl thanked the server, then thanked her benefactor, and wrapped her hands around the condensation-slicked sides. She sipped carefully, and Roderick could see the tension ease from her posture as she drank. Desperate as she was, she didn’t gulp, and with clear regret, she set the drink on the table still two-thirds full. But she kept her hands on the glass, lest some waiter assume she was finished and spirit it away.

“I won’t be upset, and I’d like to believe you.” Angling his head down to peer at her meaningfully, employing a look he’d once used when his son misbehaved, he asked, “What have you seen tonight that would upset people?”

The girl looked around, shifting so her chair creaked. This time, it wasn’t her adoptive parents she feared. Any ears may be a threat. When she leaned in, the Magus copied her, silently assuring her the secret would be safe with him.

“There’s a guest who’s not a guest, and he isn’t a man, either.”

The Magus hummed. “Say I believe you. Could you prove it?”

Seduced into the invitation of an adult confidant, and revived by the lemonade, she rushed to answer. She wanted to prove herself. She wanted to be believed and heard. The Magus was listening, and he was beginning to believe as well.

“The man paid the footman with holly leaves,” she hissed in a loud whisper. “The footman folded them like bank notes, and the spines stabbed his palms, but he didn’t notice. Look for the one with blood on his gloves.”

“And the man who isn’t a man?”

Shrinking back, the girl shook her head until the headband went crooked. Her hand pressed over her heart, rubbing hard circles as her face creased.

“He’d know I saw him,” she said. “I don’t let them know I see them anymore.”

Now there was a tale and no mistake. A child with enough power to annoy things beyond the veil – one that survived an encounter – was rare indeed.

“What happened?” He lent his tone a shade of concern. Facts, he found, traveled swiftest to a sympathetic ear, and he needed to know everything. Curiosity was growing into practical fervor as the first dreams of a plan grew into place. “Are you ill?”

She crumbled just a little bit more, folding into herself to protect the place she rubbed from some invisible threat. “Sometimes I see things that don’t want to be seen. One of them – hurt me. There’s no scar, but it hurt me, and now it aches.”

The Magus donned a solemn expression, though he felt a thrill at the prospect sitting before him. The little girl had unusual skills, and though she wasn’t handled well by the adults governing her, they must still turn a pretty penny showing her in salons and private homes. He’d confirm what she’d said, of course, validate her little proof, but she was either a better liar than he’d ever met or she was childishly honest. He knew where he’d put his money.

Where he might very well invest it, actually.

He didn’t say goodbye, only nodding as he rose and went in search of the servant with bloody gloves.

Of course, he found him. When he demanded to see what the footman had in his pockets, the boy paled, stammering excuses, only to pull out a handful of forest detritus. As the young man fell into a whirl of confusion and disappointment, the Magus truly smiled. The first real smile since Lady Werthrope brought him to the child’s table.

He must have a proper conversation with the girl’s current guardians.

Aisling clung to her bag, drowning in the heat as the train pulled away from the Wych Cross platform. Men and women fanned themselves with hats and newspapers, desperate for a breeze in the dead summer stillness. Ladies shed their gloves. Men loosened their ties. Propriety mattered less when the air was trying to suffocate them, a crushing, inescapable oven scalding the usually damp countryside.

A miserable day to travel.

Sweat dripped down her back, soaking the neck of her dress, gluing her hair to her skin. But she didn’t have a free hand to stir a breeze. Her bag was too heavy, full of everything she would need in her new home, or at least everything the Fosters thought they couldn’t sell for a profit. Mrs. Foster took her to the train station and dropped her at the door.

“Here’s your ticket. You’re heading to Wych Cross, and then to Fawney Rig. Don’t forget, and don’t miss your train,” she’d said. Then she climbed back into the cab beside Mr. Foster and disappeared into the flow of London traffic.

They’d sold her on to someone else, and now they were free of her.

She peered around the station, but it was really just a platform. In London, there were helpful adults in uniforms and suits who pointed out the right train and the right stairs to reach it. Nothing here told her how to find Fawney Rig, though, and the only adult in a uniform seemed to be the man in the ticket booth.

She’d find her way. She wasn’t a baby after all. She was eight. And she could read very well, and no one was coming to help her, so she better figure it out.

She stood in line for the ticket man’s attention. Surely, he could give her directions. The Magus was rich, and a little famous, she thought, so his neighbors must know where he lived. If the man in the booth didn’t know, she’d keep asking until she found someone who did. While she waited her turn, she set down her suitcase and sat on it, taking deep breaths that tasted like salt. It could be worse. What if it rained instead? Well. Actually. Rain sounded very nice.

Soon enough, she took her place in front of the booth, and the man frowned under his mustache like she’d arrived with a bill or a letter from someone nasty. She smiled prettily, the way the Fosters told her to, and tried to make herself look like less of a problem as she clutched her case again.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but do you know the way to Fawney Rig?”

He physically recoiled, and his frown hooked deeper with glowering doubt as he scanned her. “Fawney Rig? That devil worshiper’s house? Why do you want to know?”

“I’ve been sent to live there, sir. I’m expected, but I don’t think they’ve sent anyone for me.” Manners made things easier with adults. Good manners and clear words – the fewer the better.

But the man wasn’t swayed. He looked thunderous. Like she’d broken something valuable and ought to pay for it with a lashing.

“Do you have money for a cab?”

The Fosters didn’t own her anymore, and they’d given her nothing but cards, and costumes, and a hairbrush. All the cash stayed warm and safe in their pockets.

“No, sir.”

“Then walk down the main road. Go east from the village, and keep going until there are no more houses you can see from the street. There’ll be a path on the left with a big iron gate. Follow that and you’ll find your devil worshipers.” He waved her off like he’d slap her if not for the glass. “Next!”

Manners got her what she needed, at least. “Thank you.”

The other adults all moved aside as she trundled through with her case. It made it easier to avoid clipping ankles and shins with her luggage, but she wondered if they hated her the way the ticket man hated her – because of Fawney Rig – or if she simply smelled after the long, stuffy ride in third class. Not that adults needed an excuse to dislike her. The nice ones called her uncanny and gifted. The mean ones called her a witch, and a bastard devil-spawn, and other names a mother should wash out of their mouths with soap.

She wasn’t sure which ones were telling the truth.

She knew the way forward, though. To Fawney Rig. That was good, even if the other adults didn’t think so. The Magus may not be a nice person, she hadn’t known him long enough for the usual adult lies to wear thin enough to see through, but he was smarter than the Fosters, and he’d given her a lemonade, so maybe she wouldn’t be as hungry or thirsty under his guardianship. She’d still have to work. Adults only wanted her if they thought she could give them something. But everything was more bearable with a good dinner and cold drinks.

She hoped he’d give her another cold drink, even water with some ice, when she reached his home. The train ride left her terribly thirsty.

Leaving the shaded platform, she bowed away from the sun’s violent touch and started on her journey. The village only kept a cobbled road in the center of town. It led up to the train station, linking it to a clutch of shops and offices. A parish church sat a little way back from the road, separated from the secular world by a field of tidy tombstones in heat-bleached grass. People noticed her. They looked. They whispered to each other. But no one waved or offered a hand. Gossip didn’t move fast enough to beat her here from the train, and she wondered how people could tell she was odd. Society had so many rules beyond manners, but no one would tell her what they were, and she never guessed right.

By the time the cobblestones ended, she was struggling to hold onto her suitcase. The handle kept trying to slip from her fingers, even when she held it with both hands, and she had to work harder and harder to keep it out of the dirt. If she knew anything about the world, it was that good children didn’t drag their luggage, and bad things happened to those that did. She’d travelled enough to learn, and she wanted to make a good impression on her new keeper and his household.

The road outside of town went a very, very long way. The ticket seller’s instructions made each step sound the same length: go through town, pass the houses, go down the long drive past the gates. Her imagination had lied to her, though. Every time she thought she’d passed the last house, there came another. Each handed her down the chain of cottage gardens and small homes full of families who pretended not to see. They all knew she’d done something, like she had a brand on her forehead, and she wasn’t allowed to stop. She didn’t try to.

Everything looked sickly yellow in the midday glare. Dust hung in the air, stirred by passing cars, lingering without a breath of wind to dispel the choking clouds. Everything looked flat and dead, so much so she almost missed the gate. Another leg of her trek done. Still too far to go, and the private road leading to the Magus’ home was longer than it had any right to be.

She didn’t feel well. The trees gave her a little protection, but her stomach and lungs felt hard, strained, the way her arms ached with carrying her suitcase. Only they were parts that shouldn’t feel that way, and she thought maybe she should sit down.

But she was almost there.

Even if she walked slowly, and her feet didn’t land quite where she told them to.

She just wouldn’t think about those things. Complaining was just making excuses, and she was expected.

The house appeared out of nowhere, or she was too dizzy to see it through the leaves before the last turn in the drive. It loomed, a very final-looking destination, and her suitcase escaped her grasp. The case was slippery, and her fingers didn’t curl the way they should. She bent to pick it up, and when she straightened, the whole world spun.

She stood very still until it stopped, and she found herself shivering as she approached the front door. Very strange. Was she afraid? No. That didn’t sound right. She felt terrible, too terrible to worry, and none of it made sense.

But she’d nearly made it. She had made it. Almost.

Knocking summoned a young man, and the door creaked open as he glanced down with a quizzical expression. “Hello? Can I help you?”

She tried holding her suitcase with just one hand, but it slipped away again, barely missing her foot. Maybe a handshake was a bad idea. The stranger hadn’t held his hand out for a shake, after all. She was just confused. He might not want to touch her. And she must look a picture after her walk.

She should’ve done something differently. If she were smarter, or taller, or…

“I’m Aisling Hunt, sir. The Magus sent for me.”

“Oh.” The young man’s eyes popped wider, and she wondered if he was younger than she thought at first. Stepping back, he pulled open the door to usher her inside. “I’m sorry. I’d heard someone was coming, but I’d thought you’d be… well, older. And I’m just Alex.”

“Nice to meet you, Alex. I’m Aisling.”

He nodded and plucked her bag from where she’d dropped it. “Yes. You said. Are you feeling alright?”

She didn’t know. And grownups didn’t really like it when she was unwell anyway. Before she could come up with a suitable lie that would get her what she needed without stepping on any toes, a familiar face appeared at the end of the hall.

“Ah! You made it.” Out of formal dress, the Magus still brimmed with authority. Aisling had met many adults who wore costumes and pretended to be something they weren’t, but the Magus seemed like he’d somehow stitched his chosen persona into his skin. “Welcome to Fawney Rig.”

She wobbled. “Thank you, sir.”

“Magus,” he corrected.

“Thank you, Magus, sir.”

At last, what he was seeing overshadowed his enthusiasm, and the old man frowned. “Did you walk here? From the station?”

“Yes, Magus.”

“The Fosters didn’t even give you money for a fucking cab?”

“Just the train ticket, sir. Magus.”

She blinked, and the whole room turned blue, like peering at the world through stained glass. It looked so pretty she didn’t realize the Magus was asking her another question until his hand settled on her shoulder.

His voice came from far away. “Can you hear me?”

Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, Magus, I walked, and I found Fawney Rig all on my own, and I’m not useless, please don’t throw me away yet.

But everything looked cool, and blue, and lovely. She was floating in it. Floating and so awfully heavy at the same time. The color slipped in with her breath, eroding her control until it slipped from her grasp like the suitcase had.

The world went dark, and she didn’t see, hear, or say anything more.

And deep below, in the belly of the house, Dream of the Endless waited in his cage, as senseless to the world above as she.

[crazy-pages]

The more I read economics literature about automation trends and globalization trends (the actual economics term, not the rabid racist term) and their economic impacts on developed economies, the more I realize that the fundamental picture we have been sold these things is a lie.

The general picture of automation revolutions is that they present some way of doing work more efficiently and/or to create a better product, and so market forces simply demand it. And we have to figure out how to deal with all of the lost jobs which are resulting from this. Because even in a socialist utopia, surely it would be absurd to continue forcing people to use old and outdated technology to do work less efficiently just so they could have work to do, right? Maybe the socialist utopia will take care of people displaced by this work better, but the displacement will still happen.

Except then I start reading about the actual history in the actual economics of automation revolutions (I recommend Blood In The Machine for a history of the Luddites and the automated textile revolution in Britain). And that's not what happens even a single time. These automated revolutions increase the cost per unit to create a good! They make the quality worse! And the existing workers get displaced, and replaced with oppressed or even outright enslaved labors who make nothing in worse conditions! They didn't even actually reduce the amount of labor involved significantly, they just started working orphan slaves 80-90 hours a week rather than artisan workers doing 30-35, to "reduce" the labor involved by reducing the number of laborers. It seems like no one benefits from this. So why is it happening!?

Well the answer is simple. The machine looms were less efficient, created lower quality products, and were worse for every single person in every sector of the economy ... except insofar as that they enabled a more unequal economy. The textile industry itself made less profit. The world itself had worse and less textiles. But the machine loom owners specifically made more money, because machine rooms enabled more control over workers in ways which could be used to relegate them to an even smaller share of the smaller profits. And they didn't outcompete others by being better, they did it through regulatory capture, illegal business practices, outright fraud, and by having a pre-existing place of power in their society.

The same applies to the classic story of Ford and his great automobile factory model. Sure it produced a lot of cars at low prices, but what the history doesn't tell you is that a bunch of other automobile companies which weren't using the factory model were putting out their own cars similar cost. Sure they weren't scaling up as fast, but everyone involved was making good money and the market kept on producing more companies to fill the gap. Ford made the decision to sell to a new lower cost car market sure, but he did not make a better profit margin per dollar of car purchases than his competitors did. He made significantly worse actually because he had such hideous turnover at his factories, and his cars were of lower quality than non-factory line cars aimed at the same market could be.

So why the hell did the entire automobile industry follow in his wake? Well, because he personally was making an insane amount of money. The factory line model let him simplify the production chain in a way which cut out a lot of people who previously been making good salaries, and it let him replace well paid laborers with dirt cheap labor. (Despite the hubbub about how good Ford's factory jobs paid, they only paid well relative to other no skill no training work available. They paid much worse than the skilled laborers he fired had made.)

And the people who controlled how the car manufacturing process worked were the people who would stand to make money by switching over.

The same is true for globalization. When a berry monopoly which controls 60% of all berry sales in the US does so by importing berries from South America, from varieties optimized for durability rather than flavor, that isn't cheaper than growing them at home. Not even with the higher cost of labor in the US. Not even if you actually paid farm hands a good wage rather than by abusing undocumented workers who can't fight back as effectively. The transport costs are too high.

All across the US food sector we have examples of food monopolies exporting produce production overseas in ways that make the final product more expensive for the customer, and lower quality at the same time. Why!?

Well because it allows them to access even more vulnerable labor markets. So even though the whole pie shrinks, the company owners get a bigger enough cut of the pie to make up for it.

The lie of automation and globalization of work and the damage it does to developed economies is just that, a lie. It is not economically predestined for this stuff to happen. Alternatives are not predestined to be competed out of the market. Unless, of course, ownership of profits is concentrated in only a few hands. Unless what's being competed for isn't net profit or net service provided or net quality of goods, but how much profit you can localize in capital owners.

If that's the actual competition, and of course it is because the people making decisions for companies also own those companies, only then does job automation and the presence of exploitable overseas labor devastate economies.

If laborers actually owned their places of business piecemeal, the motivation for these kinds of economic shocks would largely dry up. Like, sure, labor saving devices get invented sometimes and you need less people to do the same work. And sure, sometimes work can be done overseas for cheaper because standards of living at lower or because there's some comparative economic advantage. But that is not actually what is happening most of the time this stuff occurs.

If there's one thing I've learned studying this stuff, it's that genuine examples of net gain automation are less common than we think, and tend to be implemented on fairly slower timelines. Same for globalization of work. What is very common is ways in which already unequal systems of ownership and decision making and profit can be made more unequal. And the only fix I can imagine is fundamentally changing and democratizing how businesses operate, and how we handle concepts of ownership.

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

The conservative gadfly Dinesh D'Souza's film and book "2000 Mules," which pushes false conspiracies about voter fraud in the 2020 presidential election, has been removed from distribution by its executive producer and publisher, according to an announcement Friday.

Salem Media Group's announcement that it had yanked D'Souza's film and book also apologized to Mark Andrews, a Georgia man falsely accused in "2000 Mules" of ballot stuffing.

Andrews in late 2022 filed a federal defamation lawsuit against the company, D'Souza, and the non-profit advocacy group True The Vote, which contributed to the "2000 Mules' project.

D'Souza and True The Vote did not immediately respond to requests for comment by CNBC about Salem Media's decision to pull "2000 Mules."

Salem Media released the film in 2022.

The company claimed at the time that "2000 Mules" was "the most successful political documentary in a decade," and that it had grossed $10 million in its first few weeks of release.

The film quickly became a part of a canon of media produced by far-right figures intended to discredit the results of the 2020 presidential election, which President Joe Biden won.

Former President Donald Trump, who lost to Biden, embraced "2000 Mules," screening the film at his Florida club Mar-a-Lago.

But since then, the claims made in the movie and the book, which was published by Salem Media's subsidiary Regnery Publishing, have been systematically debunked by journalists and law-enforcement officials.

Late last year, attorneys for True the Vote admitted in a Georgia court that they could not produce any documents to back up allegations about ballot stuffing in the 2020 presidential election in that state, which Biden won.

"2000 Mules" shows Andrews placing five ballots into a box, as D'Souza says in a voiceover: "What you are seeing is a crime. These are fraudulent votes."

Andrews' lawsuit is proceeding in court.

The suit seeks unspecified damages, royalties for the use of his name and likeness, and a court order requiring D'Souza, Salem Media, True the Vote, and others to remove their statements about Andrews.

In its statement Friday announcing it would cease distributing the film and book, Salem Media said, "It was never our intent that the publication of the 2000 Mules film and book would harm Mr. Andrews."

"We apologize for the hurt the inclusion of Mr. Andrews' image in the movie, book, and promotional materials have caused Mr. Andrews and his family," the statement said.

"We have removed the film from Salem's platforms, and there will be no future distribution of the film or the book by Salem."

"In publishing the film and the book, we relied on representations made to us by Dinesh D'Souza and True the Vote, Inc. ... that the individuals depicted in the videos provided to us by TTV, including Mr. Andrews, illegally deposited ballots," Salem Media said.

Salem Media sold Regnery Publishing, the imprint behind the "2000 Mules" book, in late 2023.

The conservative publisher was purchased by Skyhorse Publishing, an independent publisher that has released the work of a wide range of controversial authors, including conspiracy theorist Alex Jones and presidential candidate Robert F. Kennedy Jr.

Last year, Fox Corp. paid $787 million to Dominion Voting Systems to settle an unrelated defamation lawsuit based on Fox News' claims about the 2020 election.

[brehaaorgana]

I am desperate for context for your post about banks and fraud. Did that actually happen?!?! 🤯

Yeah I just went back to link the article but yesterday this article was published called The Day I Put $50,000 in a Shoe Box and Handed It to a Stranger: I never thought I was the kind of person to fall for a scam.

And it was written by Charlotte Cowles, the Cut’s financial-advice columnist. 

There's a part of the article where she says:

When I reached the bank, I told the guard I needed to make a large cash withdrawal and she sent me upstairs. Michael was on speakerphone in my pocket. I asked the teller for $50,000. The woman behind the thick glass window raised her eyebrows, disappeared into a back room, came back with a large metal box of $100 bills, and counted them out with a machine. Then she pushed the stacks of bills through the slot along with a sheet of paper warning me against scams. I thanked her and left.

A fantastic comment from Mr_Piss:

The whole lead-in about how she's not like the poor, stupid, lonely people she imagines to be easily scammed had a certain je ne sais quoi that I instantly clocked as the mutterings of an effete, inbred child of rich people - and my ability to clock that sort of thing from the get is one of the few things I like about myself.

Her husband works for a non-profit, she's 39, but they live in a $4 million dollar house in Prospect Heights? She's related to the Roosevelts? Ivy league is a given, but she feels the need to highlight it on her personal site? A child named Ripley?

This whole thing is just another rearranging deck chairs on the titanic of increasingly hubristic, insulated failsons and faildaughters are discovering the otherwise object permanence level of obvious lessons the rest of us understand.

You think Amazon will white glove you over to the CIA in a few minutes? Tell me you don't do your taxes without telling me you don't do your taxes. This person is so uncalibrated in their ability to navigate the world that their ability to generalize any intellectual output for anyone other than her similarly 0.1% situated friends is completely shot.

Let her go be on the board of a do-nothing charity, this game is up.

[rad2025]

Politics = Poly (many) + ticks (blood sucking insects)

Why?

I still don’t understand. I have spent a good amount of my past 43 years trying to understand why people think as they do. Im not a psychologist, nor do i have plans to be one. However, i have many intelligent friends that honestly seem to believe the DJT may well be the best president ever.

i have spent more than a little time considering this possibility. Let us consider some subjective research.

1. DJT was in the news repeatedly in the 1980s and 1990s for not paying his workers/contractors/filing for bankruptcy protection.

2. DJT wrote a book that i enjoyed, The Art of the Deal. He discussed his numerous purchases of NYC real estate when others were not buying, but selling somewhat low, and creating buzz about luxurious properties in order to ultimately gain a profit.

3. I enjoyed the first wildly successful season of The Apprentice on TV. So much so, that I interviewed for the second season in Seattle, WA.

4. Atlantic City, for better or for worse, was recreated by DJT.

5. DJT has had, prior to 2016, a lot to say about then current leadership of US Government.

6. DJT seems to enjoy coal, fossil fuels, and non-environmental friendly energy production in order to further increase oil and gas industry profits.

7. Revenge appears to be DJTs language of late. 8. I enjoyed reading Dr. Mary Trump’s book, Too Much, and Never Enough, about her Uncle. In summary, DJT Seems a Narcissist, and lies whenever possible to get ahead.

9. I have watched several PBS Frontline episodes about DJT’s time in office, and his fruitless and inaccurate allegations of voter fraud.

10. After obtaining my dual major in Business and Economics from a well known SUNY college, my Series 7, 66, Life and Health insurance licenses, Certified Financial Planner Designation, CEPA designation, and being the president of multiple for profit and non-profit, entities i feel i am in a decent position to honestly evaluate DJT’s business, financial and leadership qualities. He appears to have exceptionally few skills in 2024:

1. Bullheadedness

2. Unwavering convictions that he is always right.

3. Excellent presenter/public speaker.

4. Incredible persistence

5. Disinterest in others problems if he can claw above them to advance his agenda.

This begs the question: What’s to like here? That he is a Republican? Dont most republicans believe in the rule of law and the constitution? He certainly doesnt. Fake news, fake courts, fake allegations, fake ballots, nothing seems real to DJT. 11. He has been convicted in multiple courts for sexual misconduct, paying a pornography actress hush money to prevent political backlash prior to the 2016 election, and much more.

12. He sided with Putin instead of the CIA, in public, regarding allegations of voter interference.

13. He failed at many business ventures over and over again.

14. Without Fred Trump’s incredible success's in real estate, political influence, and business savvy, DJT would have been dead in the water decades ago.

WHY DO PEOPLE STILL WANT TO VOTE FOR DJT???????????????????????

Ps. First time Tumblr user/post ever here.

#djt

#politics

#democracy

[jkl-fff]

You are ruler of your country for a day! You can enact one law and it will still be in effect after you leave. What do you do?

Only one? Well, in typical USA fashion, I'm going to get around that by drafting one law (a bill) with a fuck ton of riders that are considered part of that one law (yep, even if they have nothing to do with the primary purpose of the bill and are actually something many legislators would oppose) (yet one more thing that's fucked up about this government). AND I'm going to go a step above that to guarantee these all remian in effect by declaring their enactment is as Constitutional Amendments.

Henceforth, all elected positions (presidents, governors, mayors, senators, representatives, etc.) are to be held for a term of four years, with a strict limit of two terms per person. Anyone who will turn 75 during the coming term will be deemed ineligible for office.

ALL judicial positions will be subject to a strict code of ethics (ESPECIALLY the fucking SUPREME COURT gods above, how is this already not a thing), and those who are accused of violating it will be subject to a trial with a jury of 12 judges. If found guilty of violating this code by at least 7 of the 12, they will be cast out of office ... and into prison. Also, judges can only serve at a given level for 16 years (no more of this lifetime terms bullshit).

No elected official may be reimbursed for their service at a rate higher than their state's minimum wage. Nor may they receive government benefits (like health insurance) above what the average citizen is entitled to receive. If they want more, they'd better improve the lives of their poorest citizens.

Their is a wealth cap at $500 million in private or corporate assets. Everything after that is confiscated for the public good. Anyone found guilty of trying to dodge that will lose everything and go to jail for the rest of their life (anyone with more than $10 million must be audited annually to ensure no tax fraud is being committed).

Corporate personhood will be acknowledged, but so will a corporate death penalty. If a company is found to have violated laws protecting the environment or public to a degree greater than $10 million in damages, then the company will be disbanded, and *all* assets of the executives will be seized while *half* of all middle management will be seized. (This way, rank and file workers will be incentivized to keep their company honest so they don't lose a job, management and executives will be incentivized because they stand to lose 50% or 100% of their wealth).

In a similar vein, all punitive fines are to be scaled according to the wealth of the offender. Like, a speeding ticket is $250 for a poor person, $25,000 for a millionaire.

The military can only receive as much funding as the Department of Education, which will disperse its funds to the poorest schools in a district first. But charter and religious schools are prohibited from receiving federal and state funds (if they want to be private, that's fine ... but they gotta pay for everything themselves while still being subject to federal regulations).

Business subsidies can not surpass welfare funding throughout a state. Also, if a business makes a profit one year, they are ineligible to receive subsidies the next.

Election Day is now on a Sunday, and all non essential services are to close so people can go vote. Tiered voting is to be instituted, too.

Convicted felons cannot be president even after serving their time (c'mon, people, seriously). Though they can vote again once released.

I could add others, but this has gone on long enough, and these already would be huge improvements. Thanks!

[nhaneh]

One of the things that really get me with this huge "AI" fad is how for all their talk of Artificial General Intelligence and whatnot, they've really only recreated the Chinese Room thought experiment and declared it the solution to all of the world's problems.

The Chinese Room, if you're unfamiliar, is this hypothetical about the difference between understanding and the mere appearance of it, and basically goes like this: imagine a room with a man and a book. The room has a tiny slot on one end where one can communicate with the man via written letters in traditional Chinese*. The man himself does not actually know a single character of any of these languages, but the book contains an exhaustive list of possible messages he can recieve along with appropriate responses and instructions on how to write them. Now imagine that this book is so well constructed that in spite of not understanding any of the communication he is receiving, nor any of the replies he is giving, the man and his book are still able to effectively pass the Turing test and convincingly appear a fluent speaker to anyone knowing a traditional Chinese language: can we realistically say anything within that room has any actual understanding of either Chinese or any of the communication it has participated in? The man clearly has none - does the book? Does the room as a whole system?

While I personally tend to think the thought experiment isn't necessarily all that useful due to underestimating the necessary complexity of the book and also the sheer extents to which humans showcase Competence Without Comprehension, it's not lost on me how the recent proliferation of Large Language Model systems and the forced attempts to insert it into just about anything and everything no matter whether it makes any sense or not is basically a straight up example of the Chinese Room on an industry-wide scale.

We have entire throngs of techbros falling over themselves in praise and wonder of these fancy little rooms they've constructed and the free market capitalism that purportedly has created it - even though OpenAI, the organisation that kicked off the AI gold rush with ChatGPT, is technically a non-profit organization, supposedly with the explicit goal to keep AI research available to the public and not left purely in the hands of grubby venture capitalists and profiteering CEOs.

Honestly it's kind of hard to shake the feeling that the whole AI rush is basically the same hypercapitalist tech cult that previously worshipped the blockchain turned to a new golden cow so they don't have to think about their own culpability in the current late stage capitalism hellhole we find ourselves in, even as their latest toy tech god already indulges freely in misinformation, rampant fraud, and good old racial profiling - just to name a few.

And honestly don't get me wrong - I think LLMs as a technology likely have far more actual practical applications than the blockchain ever did, but it's pretty inescapable that most examples we're being shown aren't particularly practical - if anything, I'd argue most of what I see is just spam, spam, spam.

(* the hypothetical scenario of the Chinese Room was proposed by an English-speaking American, and the choice of traditional Chinese as the example is one made purely on the basis of its perceived illegibility to many westerners. The thought experiment does not depend on any particular characteristics of traditional Chinese languages beyond their distance to English, and can easily be exchanged for any written language you personally find utterly incomprehensible - or even some generic form of encryption if you prefer, so long as the information in the notes exchanged is never presented to the person inside the room in a form that they could possibly understand)

[horsesarecreatures]

Hi 👋 ☺️

I am writing to u with a heart full of hope and faith , asking for your urgent help .

We are a family living in harsh and difficult conditions due to the war, suffering daily from fear and destruction. And Iam running a fundraising campaign to save them 🕊️.

Plz🙏 could u reblog the post about my campaign on my account!? Every share and reblog can make a difference in my family lives.

In conclusion, my family and I thank you for your kind attention to our message.❤️🌺 🍉

Yes, I hope you all will get out safe. <3 Unfortunately I am getting a fraud alert on my credit card (this happens every time I try to donate to a gofundme or non-profit based outside of the U.S.), but if there is another way to donate please let me know.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Bill Bramhall

* * * *

Become a warrior for truth!

May 18, 2024

ROBERT B. HUBBELL

I have been reflecting on why Democrats feel so besieged by the news. One obvious explanation is the patent bias against Biden and the double standard employed by the major media. However, it is also that the news outlets that are supposedly more liberal in their editorial policies and news reporting are sliding into “both siderism” and false equivalencies.

In Michael Cohen’s testimony on Thursday, he said that he would call Maggie Haberman of the NYTimes and Katie Tur of MSNBC when he wanted to plant “pro-Trump” stories. (I don’t have the actual testimony; I would appreciate it if a reader can send to me or post the testimony in the Comments section. I will pin it to the top.)

Maggie Haberman is no surprise. She is a former Daily News political reporter who thrived at the Times by engaging in “access journalism.” Haberman was brutal in her reporting on Hillary Clinton’s non-scandal relating to emails, but passively supportive in her reporting on Trump, withholding some of the most damning details discovered during her interviews and investigations.   

Katie Tur was a surprise—but not really. Nancy Pelosi recently scolded Tur on-air for being an “apologist” for Trump. On another occasion, Tur mused whether it was “fair” for New York to charge Trump with business fraud. Katy Tur Asks Whether It's Fair to Charge Trump For Fraud (mediaite.com).

But it doesn’t stop there. Ari Melber frequently platforms pro-Trump surrogates or Republicans who oppose Trump but are happy to trash Joe Biden (like former Governor John Kasich). Alex Wagner hosted a Republican consultant on Friday evening and allowed the consultant to expound on Joe Biden’s alleged weaknesses as a candidate. Wagner either didn’t care to contradict his misstatements or was not equipped to do so. Either way, she platformed a Republican operative and failed to fact-check him.

So, yeah, it feels like the leading news organization on the side of democracy and decency is giving unchecked airtime to Trump surrogates, current Republicans, or former Republicans who will rejoin the GOP when Trump is gone. The MSNBC hosts rarely challenge the anti-Biden bias of those guests. (Rachel Maddow, Chris Hayes, and Lawrence O’Donnell are exceptions.)

What should we do? On the whole, outlets like MSNBC deserve our support. Without it, the leading source of criticism of Trump and MAGA extremism may disappear. But be prepared to send critical emails and turn off offending programs when they drift into placid acceptance of lies about Biden.

Also, support independent writers like Heather Cox Richardson, Simon Rosenberg, Joyce Vance, Jay Kuo, Jessica Craven, Dan Rather, Robert Reich, Judd Legum, Lucian K. Truscott IV, Dan Pfeiffer and others on Substack who are striving to bring balance to reporting on the news. Talking Points Memo and The Guardian are also high on my list of objective sources.

Most importantly, you must become a reliable news source for friends and colleagues. If you read a factual, well-written article, op-ed, or newsletter, do not hesitate to forward it to others. I know that thousands of you forward this newsletter to friends and family—and I encourage more of you to do so!

Millions of people are hungry for objectivity, balance, and hope in the face of a news industry that profits from cynicism and negativity. Do friends and family a favor by giving them something positive to hold onto during challenging news cycles.

We are engaged in a permanent information war. You must be a warrior for truth in that ongoing struggle. I wish it were otherwise, but here we are. If you become a source of truth and hope for others, you will feel less besieged by the misinformation and bias that washes over us daily. Instead, you will take charge of the narrative in your life, a narrative grounded in truth and accuracy. It doesn’t get any better than that!

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

+

“World War III will be a guerrilla information war with no division between military and civilian participation.”

~ Marshall McLuhan (some decades ago)

[posttexasstressdisorder]

[twilightmalachite]

Raison d’être - Epilogue 1

Author: Akira

Characters: Shu, Mika

Translator: Mika Enstars

"Yes. My family who viewed the performance are satisfied as well. It is possible that our grandfather had someone he loved while he was in Paris, but…"

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Season: Spring

Location: Apartment in France

Time has since passed since Raison d’être’s performance.

At the house Shu is boarding at in Paris…

Shu: —Hah?

As I’ve said, Raison d’être was a one-time, immensely personal opera, commissioned for a Funeral Contest.

It is for private use only and there are no plans to make it public.

Non! Nothing will change no matter what you say!

Telling us that there are rumors being spread around and that there is growing demand amongst Valkyrie fans for a release changes nothing!

While it is a beautiful performance we have created, it is an opera about internal shame within the family…

I have no intentions to publicize it and make a laughingstock out of my grandfather.

That is that. Concern yourself over how to conduct yourself as a new member of society, over things such as this.

I am always open to cooperating with you, as long as it is not about a release of Raison d’être—Little lady.

Yes. Take care of your health in your new environment.

Yes, yes… Now then, farewell.

…Goodness gracious. Does that little lady think she is my mother or something? Going out of her way to make an international call for something that doesn’t matter…

Mika: What’d Anzu-san need?

Shu: It appears that Raison d’être has caught the interest of philistines, and she suggested that we make adjustments to it to suit the world’s tastes for a public release.

Preposterous, isn’t it? It being a one-time performance is precisely what gave it merit.

If our more discerning fans think seriously in their interpretation, they may arrive at the “truth” that we have worked so hard to hide.

And as such, I am resolute in my decision to keep Raison d’être private.

Mika: Mhm. By winnin’ the Funeral Contest, ya were able to receive yer Grandfather’s inheritance.

We don’t need t’make any more profit. Unusual fer a Valkyrie performance.

Shu: Yes. My family who viewed the performance are satisfied as well. It is possible that our grandfather had someone he loved while he was in Paris, but…

That person was a man.

And there is no method possible for two men to have a child with each other, so there is no way this person named Raffaello, who claimed to be the son from an affair, could exist.

Even if that young dollmaker did have a son, there would be no blood relation to Grandfather. We can safely conclude he would have no right to his inheritance.

And thus, my family is satisfied and relieved, bringing this series of tumultuous events to an end.

The fact that Raffaello’s true identity was Grandfather was not made public. They believe he was simply just a fraud.

Mika: Well, looks like the speculation we came to prior to our conception of Raison d’être has become the “truth”!

Well, it was the safest thing t’do.

Grandfather never had an affair.

Maybe he had a couple “odd romances” with his youthful indiscretion, but there’s no pressin’ inheritance issues involved.

The matter’s settled, an’ everyone’s happy.

But… I was all hurried t’prepare for Raison d’etre that my head was in a jumble. What was its true meanin’ in the end?

Shu: You have forgotten already? Secure head shut with bolts so your brains do not fall out. I’m always telling you this.

Mika: Nnah~, then that’d make me Frakensteins’ Monster?

Shu: Fufu. I’m glad to see that even my sarcasm is met with an immediate and appropriate response.

Anyhow. While I submitted the proposal for Raison d’être to my grandfather, I confronted him directly and received the following “truth”.

I am honored to say, my grandfather and I truly were alike.

My grandfather too had so-called imaginary friends since he was a child.

This imaginary friend, created to be a beautiful girl, was named “MADEMOISELLE” by my grandfather.

What made her a beautiful girl? Was it a distortment of my grandfather’s youthful sexual desire, or was it a feminine side inside of him?—

I interpret it to be the latter, although he himself was quite vague about it.

But, of course, my grandfather was the legitimate son to a strict and old family.

As the eldest son to succeed the Itsuki family name, if there were a feminine side to him—He could never admit to it, at least not publicly.

That’s how it was back then.

And so, my grandfather repressed this femininity inside him. However, it then expressed itself as coming to be the fictional girl, “MADEMOISELLE”.

That is how I’ve interpreted it.

[ ☆ ]

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[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

Former President Donald Trump loves calling for other people to be charged with crimes. Instead, today, he’ll be formally accused of committing a few himself.

Trump told his 2016 Democratic opponent, Hillary Clinton, she’d “be in jail” if he won the election, in the middle of a presidential debate. He accused former President Barack Obama of committing “treason.” He slammed President Joe Biden’s “crime family.” He called a journalist a “criminal” for failing to report news Trump wanted to hear.

But today, Trump will be arraigned in a Manhattan courtroom shortly after 2:00 p.m. EST, on charges widely expected to arise from a $130,000 hush money payment to porn star Stormy Daniels.

Now that Trump is the one being charged with a crime, Trump and his allies are blasting the move as an unacceptable politicization of the criminal justice system, overlooking the many times Trump lobbied, inside and outside the White House, for his political opponents to be investigated and criminally charged.

They’re also glossing over the fact that Trump is hardly alone among his friends: A truly staggering number of people Trump likes to pal around with—including his advisors, lawyers and top supporters—have also been found guilty of committing a wide variety of crimes, from financial fraud to lying under oath and more.

Viewed in that light, Trump is just the latest of his friend group to catch a case.

Trump’s longtime Chief Financial Officer, Allen Weisselberg, is currently wrapping up a five-month sentence in the notorious Rikers Island prison complex after entering a guilty plea on 15 criminal counts ranging from grand larceny to tax fraud.

Trump’s personal attorney Michael Cohen is now expected to be a prime witness against Trump at the former president’s upcoming criminal trial. Cohen was sentenced to three years in federal prison after pleading guilty to eight criminal counts, including tax evasion and orchestrating unlawful contributions to Trump’s presidential campaign. Cohen said he was directed by Trump to set up hush money payments to women who said they slept with Trump before the 2016 election. (Trump denies all charges, and has repeatedly insisted he did nothing wrong.)

Trump’s former campaign and White House advisor, Steve Bannon, was convicted of contempt of Congress last summer, and is now defending himself from a new round of criminal fraud charges related to a private non-profit group that aimed to build a wall on the U.S.-Mexico border. New York prosecutors accuse Bannon of defrauding donors to a charity We Build The Wall. Bannon has pleaded not guilty.

Then there’s Paul Manafort, Trump’s former campaign chairman, who was sentenced to seven years following his convictions for financial crimes, only to be pardoned by Trump. Trump also pardoned his longtime political advisor Roger Stone, who’d been convicted at a jury trial on charges of obstruction, false statements, and witness tampering relating to the Congressional investigation of Russia’s interference in the 2016 election.

Even Trump’s business has been found guilty of committing crimes.

Trump’s company was convicted of all 17 criminal counts against it during a trial in late 2022, which took place in the very same courtroom where Trump’s personal criminal case is now set to play out. He’ll even have the same New York Supreme Court Judge Juan Merchan overseeing his personal case.

Trump’s criminal drama in Manhattan, of course, isn’t the only legal jeopardy he’s facing.

He’s also being investigated by an Atlanta-area prosecutor for his attempts to reverse his 2020 election defeat in Georgia. And a federal special counsel named Jack Smith is overseeing two investigations. One concerns whether Trump broke the law by stashing secret government documents at his Mar-a-Lago club in Palm Beach, Florida; and the other concerns whether Trump committed crimes while trying to stay in power despite losing the 2020 election.