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scoutofmymind · 4 months ago

Note

Momma I request a prompt inspired by a song of your choosing (: I L Y

Couldn’t Make It Any Harder — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: mental health issues, mentions of past trauma, TorturedArtist!Reader, Empath!Luigi, Luigi says “go birds” after flipping off a woman, confused feelings, situationship, reader is just Very Confused in general, angst, eventual romance.

Wc: 5,107

I couldn't make it

Any harder to love me

Oh, one day, believe me

You’ll want someone who makes it easy

This has been floating around in my asks for awhile, and I wasn’t feeling practically inspired by any songs lately until Sabrina released Couldn’t Make It Any Harder and I couldn’t stop thinking about writing it.

This work was done quickly between my other ongoing Luigi projects, so I apologize for any inconsistencies or skipped backstory (you know I’m a backstory bitch) but I simply needed to get this out of my system, and remembered that an anon had asked me to write something based off of a song quite awhile ago!

Also, how could I leave you hanging on Valentine’s Day? Even if I’m posting this at 2 AM….

It's 8:30 AM at your usual coffee spot — that tiny café two blocks from Luigi's apartment where the barista always draws terrible attempts at latte art, and you’re still wearing yesterday's mascara, not because you've been crying, but because you spent the night in your studio, channeling your frustration into a new piece that's all sharp edges and bold strokes.

"I mean, we had a great time!" You're gesturing with your coffee cup, nearly spilling it. "We went to that new gallery opening, and he actually understood my rant about contemporary minimalism. Then dinner, drinks, great conversation — and now? Radio silence. Three days of nothing."

Luigi, sitting across from you, is trying not to smile at how animated you are, his laptop open beside him — he's probably got a Slack channel blowing up with messages from his dev team, but he rushed to meet you for this emergency coffee session, anyway.

The startup's dress code might be casual, but he always manages to look put-together in that effortless way that makes other tech bros look like they're not trying hard enough.

"Maybe I'm just-“ you pause, stirring your coffee aggressively, "too much, you know? Too loud, too passionate, too-"

"Stop," Luigi cuts in, closing his laptop and fixing his gaze on you again, "You're not too anything. You're exactly enough. So don’t even go there with me.” He massages his temples, “Too early for it.”

"I know that," you say firmly, because you do. "That's the thing — I like who I am. I like that I can talk about art for hours. I like that I get excited about things. I like that I feel everything so intensely. I'm not going to make myself smaller just because some guy can't handle it."

"Then don't," Luigi says, and there's something in his voice that makes you look up from the foam disappearing from your cappuccino. "The right person won't want you to."

"Exactly! And you know what? If Jake can't handle a woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to say it-“ you trail off, reaching for your sketchbook. You start absent-mindedly drawing on a corner of the page.

“Ugh,” Luigi’s face screws in mock disgust, “His name was Jake?”

Putting down your pen, you lean back in your chair with a frustrated sigh. "But then again, if I'm so great, why does this keep happening? Three first dates in two months, Lu. Three. And they all end the same way."

"You mean with guys who can't handle someone who actually has opinions?" Luigi takes a sip of his coffee, his fingers tapping absently on his closed laptop. A notification buzzes on his phone — probably his team wondering where he is — but he doesn't even glance at it.

"No, see, that's just it," you lean forward, your hands moving expressively as you talk. "They love it at first. They think it's so fascinating and refreshing that I'm 'not like other girls', or whatever." You roll your eyes at the phrase, hating the taste of the words in your mouth. "But then it's like they realize I'm actually serious. That I'm not just putting on some manic pixie dream girl act for their entertainment."

Luigi's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Heaven forbid you be a real person with actual thoughts and feelings."

"Right? And I know — I know I'm not too much," you say, but your voice wavers slightly. You start fidgeting with your rings, a habit Luigi's seen a thousand times when you're wrestling with something in your head. "But sometimes I wonder if-"

"If what?"

"If maybe I should just- you know.. tone it down? Just a little? Just at first?" The words sound wrong coming out of your mouth, and you can see from Luigi's expression that he knows it, too. "No, you're right, forget I said that. That's stupid."

"It is stupid," he agrees, but gently. His eyes catch yours across the table again, his gaze steady and genuine. "Remember that installation you did last month? The one about authenticity?"

"Yeah?"

"What did you tell that bag of bones professor who said it was 'overwhelmingly honest'?"

A smile starts to spread across your face. "I told him that was the whole damn point."

"Exactly." Luigi checks his watch and starts gathering his things — he's definitely late now. "So maybe the problem isn't that you're too overwhelming,” he pats the top of your head, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “maybe they're just underwhelming."

•

You're standing in front of your last piece, forcing a smile that feels like it's splitting your face in half, as another guest explains to you what your own art means.

Behind you, you can hear snippets of conversations that make your skin crawl.

It's a bit... aggressive, isn't it?

Not quite gallery standard... these nepo kids..

Experimental, but perhaps too experimental..

Your hands are shaking, so you clasp them behind your back. You've been doing this grim waltz for two hours — nodding, smiling, explaining yourself over and over to people who look through you rather than at you, and the gallery owner keeps shooting you these looks, these little disappointed glances that make you feel about two inches tall.

You catch Luigi's eye across the room.

He's been watching, you realize, while pretending to be deeply invested in a conversation with some tech entrepreneur who probably thinks art is a good investment opportunity, and he tilts his head slightly — a question.

You shake yours — you’re not okay.

"The brushstrokes here," the current patron is saying, pointing at your most vulnerable piece, "they're rather — well, chaotic. Unorganized. Muddy. It’s strange to see. Was that intentional?"

Something inside you splinters.

"Excuse me," you manage, your voice surprisingly steady for how the room is tunneling, how your fingers begin to tingle, how your lungs have lost the ability to draw in a full breath. "I need some air."

You make it through the gallery, past the whispers and the stares, past the owner who starts to say something about maintaining appearances, past the front desk and around the corner to the back alley.

Then your legs give out.

You're gasping, trying to remember how breathing works, your back against the cold brick wall. The dress — that stupid yellow dress that Luigi said was his favorite — feels too tight. Everything feels too tight.

You tear at your collar, needing air, needing space, needing- "Hey." Luigi's voice, close but not too close. "I'm here."

"I can't-" you choke out. "I can't breathe, I can't-"

"Yes, you can." He moves slowly into your space, hands hovering but not touching. "Look at me. Just look at me. I’m right here. It’s all good.”

You shake your head violently, sliding down the wall. "They're right. They're all right. I'm not- this- This isn't-" Each word feels like it's being ripped from your throat, bloody and raw and dishonest and horrific. They aren’t right. You know they aren’t.

"Bullshit." The sharpness in his voice makes you look up. He's crouched in front of you now, his tie completely undone, his eyes fierce. "They're not right. They're not even close to right. They're looking at fireworks and complaining about the noise. Old fuckin’ bunch’a assholes.”

A sob catches in your throat, half laugh, half cry. "That's a terrible metaphor."

"Made you look at me, though." His voice softens, his hands resting on your clammy shoulders. "Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe."

You try to match his exaggerated breathing, your hands still shaking. "I put everything into this show," you whisper after your second deep breath. "Everything."

"I know."

"And they just- they- they just-“

"I know." He shifts, sitting beside you against the wall, careful to leave space, but still your shoulders bump together. "But. Want to know what I think?"

You turn your head to look at him, makeup probably ruined, dress definitely stained from the alley ground, but you’ve already abandoned ship, you’ve waved your white flag — there’s no use in pretending you haven’t crumbled in a New York alleyway now. "What?"

"I think they're terrified of you."

That startles a real laugh out of you, “What?"

"You heard me." He's looking straight ahead, but there's something fierce in his profile. "You walked in there with your soul on full display, unapologetic and raw and real, and they don't know what to do with that. People like that, they're comfortable with art they can hang in their dining rooms and forget about.” You watch him blink, gathering the words, “Your shit doesn't let them forget. It makes them feel things they don't want to feel."

You nudge him gently, a laugh flaring your nostrils. "That's a lot better than the fireworks metaphor."

Now he does look at you, a small smile playing at his lips, his cheeks blushed crimson from the wine he’d gulped down just to make himself a bit more sociable. "Yeah, well, I've had three glasses of their overpriced wine. I'm feeling poetic."

Another laugh bubbles up, watery but real. You let your head fall against his shoulder, just for a moment. "I don't want to go back in there."

"So we won’t." He doesn't move, letting you lean on him, his head leaning atop yours. "Let's go get real drinks instead. You can tell me all the things you wanted to say to that guy who tried to explain color theory to you."

"God, he was the worst." You straighten up slowly, wiping at your eyes. "Did you see his socks?"

"I was trying not to."

•

You're standing at the open bar, counting the minutes until it's socially acceptable to leave, when Madison — a college friend you haven't seen in years, who always seemed to help herself to open bars beyond her means — sways over.

Her champagne sloshes dangerously close to your dress, but for some reason, you don’t step back.

"Oh my god, it really is you!" Her voice carries just a bit too loud, and you can feel a few heads turning in your direction. "I almost didn't recognize you without, you know-“ she gestures vaguely at all of you, that sick smile still on her blush pink lips. "All the paint and shit all over you.”

You take a long sip of your drink, hoping it would wash away the rising tide of anxiety in your core. "Good to see you too, Mads.”

"So,” She leans in conspiratorially, her breath smelling of booze and mid-tier champagne. “I heard about your gallery show last month. The one at The Maxwell? God, that must have been-“ She trails off, eyes wide with what looks like concern but feels like something else entirely.

Your hand tightens around your glass. "Must have been what?" Your lips tighten into a line, “It was an- an honor to have the opportunity.”

Words your father had always said to you growing up echo in the far depths of your mind; Honor and Integrity.

There’s a humility in it, in accepting such a nightmare as privilege.

"Well, I mean — I saw that article that was going around Instagram. About how you just up and left? In the middle of opening night?" She takes another sip of champagne, watching you over the rim with her big, stupid brown eyes. "Is that true? That you didn't even come back to collect your pieces? God, that's crazy!"

The word crazy hits like a slap, and you can still feel the panic from that night, the walls closing in as people whispered, pointed, discussed your work like it was a car crash they couldn't look away from and did nothing to aid.

"It's not exactly-"

"And after everything with Matt, and then Jason- ugh,” She shakes her head. "I mean, I get it. Using art as therapy. But maybe actual therapy would be — I dunno — you know, beneficial?”

"Madison-"

"I'm just worried about you," she continues, reaching for your arm and her fingers feel like serpents, coiling around your skin, suffocating you. "We all are. First the whole thing with your poor father — god, remember how he used to say you were just too-"

"Don't." Your voice comes out sharper than intended, your brows furrowed at her like she’d backhanded you. “Don’t you fucking say another word.”

Madison almost gasps, clutching her necklace. “See? This is what I mean. All this reactionary stuff. The anger. The intensity. Have you thought about getting help? My therapist says sometimes when we've been through things-"

The garden somehow feels too small, the fairy lights too bright, the music too loud. Across the room, Luigi is trapped in conversation with the bride's uncle, but somehow he must sense something because his eyes find yours, his head tilted at you, his usual question.

Everything okay?

This time, you look away from him.

"I’m going to leave this conversation before-“

"No, wait, listen." Madison's grip on your arm tightens, slithering, sneering, hissing. Fangs, poison. “That show — people were talking about it for weeks. How raw it was. How fucking uncomfortable it made everyone. One of the pieces — the one with all the broken mirrors? Someone said it looked like a cry for help."

You can feel your pulse in your throat. "It wasn't a fucking-“

"And then you just disappeared! Like, who does that, girl? Just leaves their own show? The curator had to pack up your pieces himself. That's what the article said. Is that true?" She may as well have a microphone beneath your trembling lips, taking on the role of some cheap reporter for a local shittalking magazine.

Of course she read the article.

Everyone read the article.

The one that called your work a disturbing glimpse into a clearly troubled mind. The one that suggested your artistic breakdown was inevitable given your history of emotional instability.

It was laughable, truly, and anyone that knew you well enough had known so much to be so very far from the truth.

"I had my reasons," you manage, but your voice sounds distant even to yourself. “I had reason for leaving the way I did.”

"Obviously you did. That's what I'm saying. Maybe if you got some help, you know, dealt with all this and found ways to properly cope-“ She waves her hand vaguely again, like swatting away a pesky fly. "Then maybe you could make art that's more you know.. accessible. Enjoyable. Less-“

"Less me?" The words come out before you can stop them. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t know, Madison. You haven’t seen a single one of my shows, haven’t shown yourself at any of my gallery openings-“ your cheeks burn red hot, your glass of wine discarded and your hands balled into fists. “You’re lucky I don’t fucking pop that smirk right off your-“

"That's not what I-"

“It is exactly what you fucking-“

“No, it’s not! Look at yourself!”

"Hey!” Luigi's voice cuts through the rising panic. He's suddenly there, solid and real. "Sorry to interrupt, but we have that thing that we have to get to-“ he loops his arm around yours, and he swears he can feel the heat radiating off of you, hot and quivering like a volcano deciding if it’s time to erupt just yet or not.

Madison blinks at him, her nostrils flared at the sudden interruption. It seems as though this is exactly the reaction she wanted, and was pissed the show had called curtains so quickly. "What thing?"

"That very important thing," Luigi says firmly, already guiding you away. "Great catching up. Green is not your color. Go Birds.” As he turns you both, he raises his middle finger behind your back — not because you needed defending, but because that's who Luigi is; all sharp edges and fierce loyalty, a guard dog with his teeth bared in your honor, though, you catch the gesture in a reflection, and something warm unfurls in your chest.

Not because you needed saving, but because he'd always take your side, no matter the circumstances. He didn’t need to know why you were barking at this girl he’d never met before — he already knew you had good reason to do it.

You make it to the venue's back garden before your legs give out, and the fairy lights blur through tears you refuse to let fall. "Did you— fuck,” Your voice shakes as you reach to wipe away the tears before they even get the chance to glide down your cheeks. "Did you actually hear what she was saying or just see it?”

"Caught the greatest hits." His jaw is tight, his hand resting on your lower back as he hunches forward, clearly concerned but approaching all of it carefully.

You can’t help but wonder then how many times you’ll find yourselves like this — Luigi rescuing you from yet another mishap, and that alone could become a new reason to feel sorry for yourself.

And him.

"The article." You wrap your arms around yourself. "She read the fucking article."

Ironically, you had originally taken the article well.

Too well, in fact.

You'd invited them all over — Luigi, Anna, Theo — for what you called A Reading of My Professional Obituary. You'd spent all day in the kitchen, channeling your grandmother's stress-cooking legacy; bouillabaisse simmering for hours, Tarte Tatin caramelizing to golden perfection.

The good wine came out, the kind you'd been saving for a real occasion.

Perched in your chair like it was a throne, wine glass dangling from your fingers, you'd performed dramatic readings of the choicest quotes. "Sources close to the artist describe a history of emotional instability," you'd intoned, affecting a pompous art critic voice that had Luigi choking on his wine. "An unsettling collection that seemed less like art and more like a cry for help.”

The evening devolved into a tipsy game of "Guess the Snitch" — everyone taking turns suggesting increasingly ridiculous candidates for the mysterious source. "It was Gabby, in the gallery, with the emotional manipulation!" Theo had declared, wielding his bouillabaisse spoon like a gavel.

But Luigi had watched you through it all — the way your hand shook slightly when pouring wine, how your laugh got a little too loud to be genuine, and how you'd spent three hours making a perfect French dessert like your life depended on proving you weren't falling apart.

"We all did." Luigi reminds you, his voice gentle but firm. "Christ, we turned it into dinner theater. Remember how Anna did that dramatic interpretation of ' the unsettling collection'?" His hand finds your knee, squeezing. "And it was shit. Not only was it shit — it was cowardly. Didn't even have the spine to name you."

You tilt your head back, using the stars as gravity's help against the tears threatening to spill. The fairy lights from the wedding garden blur into little halos. "I know, but — these people, Lu." Your voice catches, and you hate how it betrays you. "They believe it. They're all walking around thinking I'm some unhinged artist who needs to be sedated and locked away from sharp objects." A laugh escapes, but it's wet and hollow. "God, I wish I'd understood what that article would do. I wish-"

But there's no point in wishing.

The damage was done with surgical precision.

They hadn't needed to use your name — everyone knew exactly whose exhibition had opened at Maxwell Gallery on August fifteenth.

Yours.

•

The hotel room feels smaller with each passing hour.

You've mastered a careful choreography — sliding past each other in the narrow spaces, maintaining precise distances on the king bed as you both pretend to watch some mindless cooking show. But sometimes, despite your best efforts, you slip. His hand brushes yours as you both reach for the room service menu, your feet touch under the shared blanket; each accidental contact sends you recoiling like a startled cat, though you used to fall asleep during movie nights without a second thought.

When your knee accidentally bumps his as you shift position, you jerk away so violently you nearly fall off the bed.

"Okay." Luigi mutes the TV, turning to face you. "We need to talk about this."

"About what?" But you know exactly what, can feel heat creeping up your neck and it makes you want to run.

"About how we used to share my twin bed during college when you crashed at my place, but now you act like my skin is fucking toxic." His voice is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of hurt that makes your core ache. "Remember that road trip to Detroit? You slept on my chest the whole way back because the car heater was broken.“ he looks desperate, grasping at the last straws of you. “I feel like we hardly look each other in the eyes now.”

You stare hard at the geometric pattern on the duvet, picking at a loose thread. "Things were different then."

"Were they?" He shifts closer, and you fight the urge to move away. "Or are you just scared they weren't?"

You get up abruptly, needing to put physical space between you and that question, the Chicago night spreading out beyond the window, a constellation of lights blurring through unshed tears; each one feels like a witness to this moment, to your cowardice.

"You know what changed," you say finally, arms crossed tight against your chest like armor. "After Maxwell, after the article, after everything became public consumption — I can't be that person anymore.”

"Why not?" His voice is closer now — he's moved to the edge of the bed, but he doesn't approach further. Giving you space while refusing to let you run.

Very classic Luigi.

A laugh escapes you, bitter and dry. "Because now everyone's watching. Waiting for the next shoe to drop. And you-“ You turn just enough to catch his reflection in the window, superimposed over the city lights. "You're too important to me, Lu.”

"So you'd rather just — what? Keep pretending?" There's frustration in his voice now, raw and real. "We both know that's not sustainable. Not when we used to-“ He trails off, and you recall the many countless nights on his cramped couch, your head on his chest, his heartbeat your lullaby to the most restful sleep you’d ever known.

"Maybe not," you admit quietly. "But it's safer than the alternative."

"Safer for who?"

The question almost knocks you off your feet.

Because he's right — this careful distance isn't protecting him. It's protecting you. From vulnerability. From the possibility of loss. From the terrifying reality that despite everything, despite all your jagged edges and dark corners, he's still here.

Still looking at you like you're something precious instead of precarious.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with all the things you're afraid to say, all the ways you're afraid to need him, and even more terrified of the way he needs you.

Eventually, you turn from the window, facing him. "It can't be simple. I won't let it be." Your voice catches. "I push and I pull and I keep everyone at arm's length until they prove me right by leaving."

Luigi stands slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal. "You've been trying so hard to make it impossible," he says softly. "Creating distance, convincing yourself I'll give up." He takes another step closer. "But loving you has always been the easiest thing I've ever done."

"Don't." The word comes out choked, your hand pressing against his chest in hopes that he’ll back away. "Don't say that when you know how complicated — how- how difficult-"

"Difficult?" He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, stood firm but not inching any closer. "You want to talk about difficult? Try watching you date other people. Try sitting across from you at coffee shops for years and watching you cry over them. Try fucking loving you quietly through every gallery opening, every crisis,“ his brows furrow, his nostrils flare, “you don’t get to tell me what loving you is like.”

Your breath catches as he reaches for you.

"You think you're pushing me away?" His voice is barely above a whisper, his hands finally cradling your face, tears dampening your cheeks that blaze with warmth. "I've been yours since that first night you fell asleep on my shoulder during finals week. Everything since then — it's just been waiting."

You clench your jaw, your heart a wild thing against your ribs. This tightrope you and Luigi have been walking for years — this delicate balance of almost-but-not-quite, of maybe-someday-but-not-now — has finally frayed beneath your feet. All those careful steps, those perfectly maintained distances, those nights of pretending your skin didn't burn where he almost touched you.

They’ve led you here, to this hotel room in Chicago, where the fantasy of staying safely suspended between friendship and something more has finally given way to gravity.

And what, you wonder, has Luigi seen in you to make him want to dive deeper into your chaos?

He's already witnessed the 3 AM phone calls when your mind won't quiet, the obsessive cleaning episodes that leave your hands raw and your apartment sterile. He's held you through the tears that come without warning, weathered the anger that burns hot and fast like summer lightning.

You're no manic pixie dream girl — you're the real thing, messy and unpredictable, with a heart that bleeds all over everything it touches.

He's either a storm chaser or a fool, you think.

Some hopeless beast tamer who hasn't realized that some creatures aren't meant to be gentled, that some storms leave nothing but wreckage in their wake.

But that's the thing — to Luigi, you've never been a storm to weather or a beast to tame. He doesn't look at you like you're broken machinery in need of repair, doesn't treat your edges like something to be smoothed away.

Instead, he's spent years matching your pace, stepping back when you needed space, stepping forward when you needed anchor. And now, finally, the weight of all that careful patience has brought him here — raw and honest in this dim hotel room, asking you to either meet him in this space between what you are and what you could be, or lay him to rest.

"Touch me," he says, the words falling soft but heavy in the space between you. His eyes hold yours, steady and sure, "Or let me go.”

The city lights paint his silhouette in gold and shadow, and you realize you've never seen him look so vulnerable, so stripped of the careful composure he always maintains. Your Luigi laid bare — not the patient friend, not the steady shoulder, but a man who's finally reached the end of his endurance.

"What if we break?" The question slips from your lips, small and honest, carrying all the weight of your fears that kept you at such a distance all these years — shattering to pieces, left broken by the man you’d loved the most.

Luigi's eyes soften, and something like a smile — sad and sweet and knowing — tugs at the corner of his lips. "Then we break," he says simply, his thumbs swiping away the tears that slide down your cheeks. "But I'd rather that than spend the rest of my life whole and wondering."

His hands haven’t moved. Patient, steady Luigi, who has never pushed but never fully retreated, either. Who has somehow found this perfect middle ground between staying and going, between asking and waiting.

And maybe that's what finally does it — the realization that he's offering you both beginning and end in the same breath. That he's standing here saying yes to all of it; the possibility of breaking, of shattering, of ending up with nothing but deadly carnage between you.

That he knows exactly what he's asking for, and he's asking anyway.

Your hand moves before you can think yourself out of it again, crossing the space between you like a prayer finally answered. When you cup his face, the scrape of stubble against your palm is both foreign and achingly familiar — like a song you used to know by heart, now half-remembered.

His eyes flutter closed at your touch, and you feel the slight tremor in his jaw, the way he leans into your hand like he's been starving for it.

His breath catches, shaky and soft, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. "There you are," he whispers against your palm, like he's greeting someone long lost, like you've finally come home after years away. "There you are."

His lips brush your palm once more before he lifts his gaze to yours, eyes dark with something between hope and heartache. "Tell me to pull away," he whispers, voice rough. "Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll go. I'll understand."

But his body betrays him — the slight tremor still present in his jaw under your touch, the way he's still leaning into your hand like he can't help himself. He's offering you an exit, even now. Steady, selfless Luigi, always making sure you have a way out, even when it's killing him to do so.

And that's what breaks you finally — not his touch or his words, but this endless capacity of his to put your needs first.

To stand here offering everything he has left and the chance to walk away from it.

His hand finds your waist, fingers pressing into soft flesh with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. That small sound seems to undo something in him — his control fractures, and suddenly he's pulling you down to him with a urgency that matches your own, your hands bracing against his chest, feeling the thundering of his heart beneath your palms.

"I've thought about this," he confesses roughly, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes heat pool low in your stomach, his thumb tracing a burning path along your hip bone. "Having you like this.”

You can feel the tension coiled in him, the way he's still holding back despite everything. Even now, he's giving you the chance to set the pace, to decide how far this goes. But you're done with hesitation, done with the careful distance you've maintained for so long.

You lean down, letting your lips brush against his ear. "Show me," you whisper, and feel him shudder beneath you. "Show me how you wanted me."

He moves with a swiftness that steals your breath, flipping your positions in one fluid motion. Now he's the one hovering above you, his forearm braced beside your head, other hand still at your waist.

The weight of him, the heat of him so close — it makes your head spin.

"Like this," he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. "Just like this." He holds you like you’ll run from him — just like he’s watched you run from everything before that doesn’t run from you first.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the way he's trembling slightly despite his strength. "I'm here," you whisper back, one hand sliding up to cup his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."

#yuhhhhhh!!!#req #a quick one #just a lil quick 5k nbd #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic

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urfavrib · 3 months ago

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GRICKO MY BOY ITS YOUR TURN FOR HCS

Gricko is trans masc, not fully ftm but like he definitely prefers presenting masculine. (Def a He/They)

Tax E Dermi is totally his drag name and he lives to be gross but oddly seductive.

Deez Nuts jokes are totally the reason him and Gideon are such good friends, it makes Gricko feels smart and Gid gets to chase him and punch him if he catches him.

He is the god of 420, he always has something. Be it a brownie (made with Kremy mostly for pain relief but more than 1 dose gets ya pretty silly), a funny cigarette, or a bowl. He’s got it. He is very responsible with said effects so Hootsie knows if you’re partaking to be smart and safe and you must be an adult.

He is the inventor of the FlyPad. He’s been working on marketing for years. Just hard to get a tech startup off the ground when you’re running from carny hands or Garou.

Frost and Gricko are generally on the same page about doing things, but Gricko plays dumb for the sake of the Krew. Too many cooks in the kitchen makes burnt soup of something.

Gricko had the grades to go to Uni. He hated the idea though. Wanted to start his band.

Gricko at first thought Frosty was a monstrosity from the level of disarray he was in. But with a bath and plenty of love he learned quickly that wasn’t the case.

Gricko read Psionic practices for dummies, so he can kinda start a telepathic conversation with Frost. Only Frost because no one else has psionic abilities. (they usually just play word games in their heads together on travel days)

Hootsie actually was a name she picked herself. Gricko did the thing where he wrote a bunch down and had her go to the one she liked most. (It was between Hootsie and Glorba)

Although mainly dealing in monstrosities and beasts at the carnival he was also first aid and lost & found.

#once upon a witchlight #legends of avantris #gricko grimgrin #morning frost #hootsie grimgrin #gideon coal #kremy lecroux

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meow-moment · 4 months ago

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My distoipian short story i hope you like it

I wake up. I turn off my alarm clock (head implant) and leave my house. My mom is already at work, her job as a looping stripper hologram starts at 3am. I get on the city bus (flying) and head to dystopian megaschool. Chris Pratt Generalized Turbocademy, located in central HyperNeo CyberJersey.

As soon as I arrive the custodian android straps me into my infopod. The VR headset thrusts itself onto my eyes and feeds me two hours straight of propagandvertising (portmantaeu of propaganda+advertising). I am then quizzed.

"Who Won The Neon Wars?" It asks.

"PepsiCo," I answer.

"How Many People Died In The Neon Wars?"

"2.6 Trillion."

"Name One Long-Term Consequence Of The Neon Wars."

"The sun got extinguished."

And the quiz continues. I get every question right- if I got two or more wrong, my infopod would liquefy me and send my remains to the cafeteria to be served as lunch. The headset chastises my handwriting and recommends a stabilizer implant for my wrist. (I already have one but the machine is trying to get me to admit it's a bootleg. If I do admit it, I will also be liquefied.)

After that is lunch. They're serving my favorite today: liquefied students. I meet up with my friends Xyrone, Klazzz, and M.I.K.E. and we gossip together.

Xyrone is a hacker with a headset constantly strapped over his eyes and a bitcoin-mining rig surgically mounted to his back. He doesn't need to study because he can break through the school's firewall and change his grades to A's. We keep asking him to change ours too, but he's a Nova-Libertarian, so he thinks if we want it that bad we should do it ourselves.

Klazzz was recruited at age 8 to pilot a mech in the global manhunt for Saddam Hussien. (He'd have to be 900 years old by now at least, but modern medicine is crazy so I dunno.) A bully thinks it's be funny to mimic an explosion sound with his mouth right behind her, and her combat instincts kick in and she vaporizes him and his posse with her arm-mounted neutron cannon. (If anyone tries to remove it from her body, it shuts down her nervous system and then self-destructs, meaning it's classified as a disability aid)(that's why she's allowed to have it in school)

M.I.K.E. is a closeted singularity. He doesn't think anyone knows but he's obviously such a sjklop (slur for AIs) its not even funny. Sometimes I paint captchas on my face so he can't tell its me and then I beat the fuck out of him. I think it's funny.

We realize we all have next period free so we decide to skip class. On the way to our favorite pizza joint we notice a news bulletin being projected onto the sky. Greg (Eternal God-CEO, President, Emperor-Lord, and Judge of the Northern Hemisphere, as well as founder of tech startup Rooblop) is announcing that we're going to nuke Venus, just in case there are aliens there.

We turn around from the news just in time to realize that M.I.K.E.'s pathfinding has malfunctioned and led him into the middle of the street. He's hit by a car and immediately torn to shreds (all cars have sawblades mounted to the front to discourage jaywalking.) The driver doesn't even bat an eye (he's also an AI, his own pathfinding malfunctions a second later and he makes a sharp left turn into a crowded mall.) I save the footage and post it to the cloud. It gains 2 billion views over the next thirty seconds. Ten seconds after that, a rights organization cancels me for glorifying AI murder. On the horizon, I see a drone strike get called in on my Dystopian Megaschool, and I'm glad I skipped class.

We stop at the Dystopian Mega Pizza Shop on the way home. Their pepperoni is guaranteed to only be 90% liquefied high schoolers, and the cookies they sell even have real Khreim! (not to be confused with Cream, Creme, Kreem, Chreamm, or Kchreeighm.) Unfortunately, the entire restaurant is sold out, as the cadre of CopDrones in the corner bought everything edible in the building to fuel their starved appetites. Klazzz throws a disparaging insult in their direction, and in response they shoot Xyrone 87 times in the chest.

I arrive home. My mom is home on her 30 minute break. She's made meatloaf, made with Tomaytoh Soss(tm,) Garlic, Liquid Teenagers, and a whole lot of love. I give her a big hug. She says she has to run, but there's a special birthday treat in the freezer. I open it up to find a whole pint of ice cream waiting for me. My favorite flavor: mint chip.

And you'll never guess what it's made of.

That's right: Bugs.

THIS POST IS SATIRE

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mostlysignssomeportents · 7 months ago

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A year in illustration (2024), Part three

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/07/great-kepplers-ghost/art-adjacent

Part one

Part two

Live Nation/Ticketmaster is buying Congress

I had a lot of fun scouring Victorian woodcuts for cool tentacles to add to this image. The garish concert lights in the background were a fun find – I was halfway through using them when I realized that the image came from my old pal Matt Biddulph, who has many claims to fame, but my favorite is that he once sarcastically called the area in Hackney where some tech startups were clustered "Silicon Roundabout" and then experienced the monkey's paw curse of having the government turn this into an official designation.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/30/nix-fix-the-tix/#something-must-be-done-there-we-did-something

(Image: Matt Biddulph, CC BY-SA 2.0; Flying Logos, CC BY-SA 4.0; modified)

The specific process by which Google enshittified its search

Around April, I realized I needed a visual signifier for "enshittified Google" – I created a cartoon mascot with the head of a poop emoji, colored in the original Google logo colors. I put him into "The Junior Partner Speaks," an old ad for Pacific Woolens and Worsteds, which I've since used several times:

https://craphound.com/images/juniorpartner.jpg

I'm very fond of using the homely old original Google logo as a way to differentiate pre-enshittificatory Google from modern, enshittocene Google.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/24/naming-names/#prabhakar-raghavan

Podcasting "Capitalists Hate Capitalism"

Real Gilded Age corruption-heads will instantly recognize the editorial cartoon image of Boss Tweed as a suited figure with a sack of money for a head; his body language is impeccable, conveying a sneering disregard for decency and others' wellbeing. He works very well inserted into this tapestry of feudal peasants threshing grain.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/18/in-extremis-veritas/#the-winnah

No, "convenience" isn't the problem

It's stupidly, unnecessarily hard to find hi-rez scans of Rube Goldberg cartoons online, but this one is perfect and it was a delight to lovingly crop out all its little details. Throw in Cryteria's HAL 9000 and a Matrix code waterfall and you've got a perfect image of the complex, hostile traps of digital systems.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/12/give-me-convenience/#or-give-me-death

The unexpected upside of global monopoly capitalism

This one's pretty subtle! I mostly just added the monocle, mustache and top-hat to the fallen head of Goliath in Bosse's 17th century engraving of the triumphant David. The planet Earth in David's sling is a NASA image and thus in the public domain.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/10/an-injury-to-one/#is-an-injury-to-all

How to shatter the class solidarity of the ruling class

Goodness, but "canceled" is a tedious cliche. If you must describe someone being ejected from polite society, please consider the far more delightful "defenestrated," not least because the many paintings and etchings of The Defenestration of Prague gives us a lot of public domain visual material to work with when illustrating such events.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/08/money-talks/#bullshit-walks

(Image: KMJ, CC BY-SA 3.0, modified)

General Mills and cheaply bought "dietitians" co-opted the anti-diet movement

The minute I saw this unsourced midcentury commercial illustration of a scientist working in a chem lab, I knew I'd get a lot of mileage out of it; I spent a long flight productively slicing it onto layers so that I could replace his head and put arbitrary objects in his flask:

https://craphound.com/images/labflask.jpg

I've used him before, but putting the Trix rabbit's head on him and sticking a box of Cocoa Puffs in the flask worked great.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/05/corrupt-for-cocoa-puffs/#flood-the-zone-with-shit

Too big to care

I spent the whole flight to SXSW last year slicing up a super hi-rez (10,000px wide!) image of Hieronymus Bosch's "Garden of Earthly Delights," slicing out individual demons, with special attention to the hoof-footed, anus-baring demon in a hat with a whole secret demonic clubhouse in its rectal cavity. At the end of that flight, I had a very funny conversation with my perplexed seatmate, who was dying to know what the actual fuck I was working on.

The background here is made up of desaturated, magnified brushstrokes from Van Gogh's "Starry Night."

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

Red Lobster was killed by private equity, not Endless Shrimp

I inserted a rogue's gallery of "evil boss types" from various editorial cartoons into this vintage Red Lobster ad, including Boss Tweed, an impatient guy from a midcentury John Falter commercial illustration, possibly for a radio station (?) and a William Gropper sketch for a cartoon making fun of the business lobby's opposition to the New Deal.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/23/spineless/#invertebrates

You were promised a jetpack by liars

The newsie with the great grin makes a reappearance in this one, beneath a jetpack flyer taken from a 1928 Amazing Stories cover by R Frank Paul. The control panel is one of several midcentury electronics consoles I've spent idle hours cropping out (this one comes from a Schlitz ad depicting a HAM radio enthusiast). The hypnotic head is from the October, 1953 cover of Doll-Man, likely by Reed Crandall. I started playing around with halftoning with this one, on the background, as a way of hiding the JPEG artifacts that emerged when I uprezzed small source images. It worked really well.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/17/fake-it-until-you-dont-make-it/#twenty-one-seconds

AI "art" and uncanniness

I was so happy with how the extra fingers on this Victorian woodcut of a hand on a Oujia board planchette came out. And the green tinting worked perfectly with the Code Waterfall background.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/13/spooky-action-at-a-close-up/#invisible-hand

Part four

#art #collages #public domain #creative commons #cc #fair use #copyfight #visual communications #illustration #pluralistic illustrations 2024

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mariacallous · 7 months ago

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In July 2020, a 72-year-old attorney posing as a delivery person rang the doorbell at US district judge Esther Salas’ house in North Brunswick, New Jersey. When the door opened, the attorney fired a gun, wounding the judge’s husband—and killing her only child, 20-year-old Daniel Mark Anderl.

The murderer, Salas said, had found her address online and was outraged because she hadn’t handled a case of his client fast enough. In her despair, Salas publicly pleaded, “We can make it hard for those who target us to track us down … We can't just sit back and wait for another tragedy to strike.”

She wanted judges to be able to keep their home addresses private. New Jersey lawmakers delivered. Months after the murder, they unanimously enacted Daniel’s Law. Today, current and former judges, cops, prosecutors, and others working in criminal justice can have their household’s address and phone numbers withheld from government records in the state. They also can demand that the data be removed from any website, including popular tools for researching people such as Whitepages, Spokeo, Equifax, and RocketReach.

Companies that don’t comply within 10 business days have to pay a penalty of at least $1,000. This makes New Jersey’s law the only privacy statute in the US that guarantees people a court payout when requests to keep information private are ignored.

That provision is being put to a consequential test.

In a pile of lawsuits in New Jersey—drummed up by a 41-year-old serial entrepreneur named Matt Adkisson and five law firms, including two of the nation’s most prominent—about 20,000 workers, retirees, and their relatives are suing 150 companies and counting for allegedly failing to honor requests to have their personal information removed under Daniel’s Law.

These companies, which Adkisson estimates generate $150 billion annually in sales, may now be on the hook for $8 billion in penalties. But what’s more important to him is the hope that this narrow New Jersey law could act as a wedge to force data brokers to stop publishing sensitive data about people of all professions nationwide. He’s hoping that this multibillion-dollar pursuit, with its army of union cop households, may be a catalyst for better personal privacy for us all.

If he doesn’t win, the oft-derided data broker industry would have proved that it has a right under the First Amendment to publish people’s contact information. Websites could avoid further regulation, and no one in the US may ever be guaranteed by law to become less googleable. “I never thought we would have such a hard time, that it would turn into such a battle,” Adkisson says. “Just home address, phone number, remove it. One state. Twenty-thousand people.”

This is the first definitive account of how the fate of one of the country’s most intriguing privacy laws came to rest on the shoulders of Adkisson’s latest tech startup, Atlas.

Matt Adkisson is almost your prototypical lifelong entrepreneur. He quit high school at 16 to code video games and small-business websites. His parents insisted, though, that he audit classes across the street from their home, at the US Naval War College in Rhode Island. So he began learning about national security. One lesson he picked up: When judges live in fear and can’t rule impartially, democracies can wither.

But saving democracy wasn't his passion. Making money was. He headed off to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology with designs on becoming a consultant or investment banker, but dropped out before senior year. Like so many other young people in the midst of the Web 2.0 frenzy, he had an entrepreneurial itch. Without telling them, Adkisson cashed out his parents’ tuition payment, and in 2006, he and a friend slept under office desks for a month before founding a company called FreeCause with Adkisson’s brother to develop marketing tools for Facebook games. Adkisson later bought shares of the nascent social media startup. Both bets paid millions. In 2009, FreeCause sold for about $30 million.

Adkisson upgraded to nights on a friend’s couch in San Francisco, where he used his wealth to invest in or start dozens of other software companies. As they sold, he became a comfortable multimillionaire. It was his last big deal, in 2018, that set him down the path of privacy crusader. He had sold Safer, which developed a Google Chrome competitor called Secure Browser, to antivirus maker Avast for about $10 million.

Adkisson and a cofounder recall that during a meeting over lakeside beers near offices in Friedrichshafen, Germany, after the deal closed, an Avast executive demanded they feed search activity from Secure Browser’s millions of users to Jumpshot, a sibling unit that was selling antivirus users’ browsing history to companies wanting to study consumer trends.

Adkisson stood to make millions of dollars in bonuses from the proposed integration. He refused. It was too intrusive to share that intimate data, he says, and a violation of trust. (Avast declined to comment on the episode. It shuttered Jumpshot, and this year agreed to pay $16.5 million to settle US government charges over the service’s allegedly deceptive data usage.)

Adkisson left Avast in December 2020 thinking he would keep adding to his portfolio of over 300 startup investments or pursue something in AI, like automating brushstrokes to create on-demand oil paintings. But he couldn’t shake the Friedrichshafen incident. For his web browsing, he started to use VPNs and the privacy-focused search engine DuckDuckGo. He tried to get websites to remove his new East Coast home address. Those efforts mostly failed; companies had no obligation to comply.

These websites that sell addresses or phone numbers typically get that data by buying voter or property records from governments, and user account details from companies willing to deal. The easy access to data enabled by the aggregators can be vital to services like identity verification or targeted advertising. But the customers also can include people who are looking for an old friend. Or investigating a crime. Or someone with a grudge against, say, a judge.

As Adkisson dug into the data broker industry in 2021, he read about how a law that went into effect the year before had given Californians a right to demand companies delete their personal information. So Adkisson and two cofounders launched a service they called RoundRobin, to help Californians do just that for a fee. Services like DeleteMe and Optery were already selling deletion assistance, but Adkisson felt they were more marketing spin than serious tech.

RoundRobin joined the well-known startup accelerator Y Combinator in April 2021 and began developing software to simplify making requests. But the startup had no way to enforce the takedowns it wanted to charge customers for; only California’s attorney general could sue for violations of the nascent law. Data websites ignored RoundRobin.

Given Adkisson’s pedigree, investors held out hope. California privacy activist Tom Kemp, Lightspeed Venture Partners, and others invested about $2 million in RoundRobin that August. But the struggle continued. The cofounders renamed the company to the more serious-sounding Atlas Data Privacy in January 2022. It didn’t help. But then, a break. Just as Adkisson was considering giving up and his initial cofounders were pulling out, a relative of his in California who had worked in law enforcement mentioned Daniel Anderl’s murder—and the law it inspired in New Jersey. “Fate delivered the Garden State,” Adkisson says.

He soon reached out to law enforcement experts, including a former Boston police commissioner and a retired Navy rear admiral. The two told Adkisson stories about cops who were attacked in their homes. They urged him to press on.

The first organization to return Adkisson’s cold calls was the New Jersey State Policemen's Benevolent Association, the state’s largest police union. They said a few of the organization’s 31,000 members needed help containing some inadvertently leaked contact information. Adkisson and a cofounder, J.P. Carlucci, took a stab. Despite limited success, union members were excited by Adkisson’s moxy. In July 2022, a union leadership group voted unanimously to offer Atlas’ service as a benefit to members with the intention of using Daniel’s Law to demand websites remove phone numbers and addresses. The cost, spread across all members paying for the union’s legal protection plan, was hundreds of thousands of dollars annually, Adkisson says.

In August 2022, with the deal signed and thousands of members soon enrolled, Atlas established headquarters in Jersey City, New Jersey, and set out to prove it could deliver better results than back in California. For that, it needed litigation power.

The first six law firms Adkisson called refused to take up the New Jersey cases. They worried about their financial return and the likelihood of success. Judges had discretion over the $1,000 payouts, plaintiffs had to prove physical harm, and to even bring a case, attorneys had to mobilize each plaintiff individually. It wasn’t a good equation.

Over seafood in San Francisco on the waterfront, one attorney sketched out for Adkisson revisions to Daniel’s Law that could make Atlas’ job easier. Adkisson took those suggestions back to the police union, which in turn used its weight in Trenton to push lawmakers to enact the changes. By December 2022, legislators introduced amendments requiring judges to impose financial penalties on websites that failed to honor removal requests, allowing those covered by the law to sue more liberally, and enabling attorneys to more easily bring big cases. In July 2023, just after the third anniversary of Daniel’s murder, the governor signed these amendments into law.

Atlas stayed focused on recruiting more users, from the police union and beyond. Newly hired staff—the company grew to a total of eight people—learned the lingo, like don’t refer to state troopers as “officers.” Adkisson let clients call him directly 24/7 for technical support. He drove his Jeep Cherokee more than 50,000 miles to every corner of the state. The Atlas team spent 18 hours on back-to-back days at a correctional facility to catch every shift, plying union guards with Crumbl Cookies and Shake Shack. “Word started to spread, like, ‘Who the hell are these people?’” Adkisson says. “That brought us credibility.”

Days before last Christmas, Atlas finished the software for users to select the companies to which they wanted to send emailed data removal requests. The tired team gathered over Zoom watching a tally rise as the emails landed in data brokers’ inboxes. Altogether, Atlas would deliver 40 million emails to 1,000 websites on behalf of roughly 20,000 people over the next five months.

Helping users with only the easy targets—the ad-supported websites that tend to pop up when googling someone’s name—“would have been a band-aid on a wound that needed much deeper treatment,” Adkisson says. To provide what it viewed as comprehensive support and more than what competitors offer, Atlas also was facilitating takedown requests to mainstream services such as Zillow and Twilio. They tend to supply data through fee-supported advanced tools that don't pop up on a standard Google query.

Twilio denies that it provides data subject to Daniel’s Law. Zillow didn’t respond to WIRED’s requests for comment. Atlas, Adkisson says, spent about $1.3 million in labor and fees to verify websites it targeted were actually providing home addresses and phone numbers.

The startup got its first response on December 26. Red Violet, whose Forewarn data dossiers help real estate agents vet potential clients, was demanding Atlas cease and desist, erroneously claiming that Daniel’s Law applied only to government agencies and not private companies. Adkisson had expected the legal teeth of the updated Daniel's Law to inspire widespread compliance. This was a rough start. “Demoralizing,” Adkisson says.

Other companies responded with demands to see ID cards of Atlas clients, apparently suspicious that the startup was making up its customers or people demanding takedowns were pretending to work in law enforcement just to be covered by the law. Adkisson told one company they could call requestors to authenticate demands. After all, it had their numbers. Another company suggested that if Atlas clients wanted anonymity, they should have used an LLC to buy property instead of their own names.

Akisson says the most retaliatory response came from LexisNexis, which lets police and businesses search for people's contact information and life history, typically for investigations and background checks. He alleges that instead of removing Atlas clients’ phone numbers and addresses from view, LexisNexis needlessly froze their entire files in its system, impeding credit checks some were undergoing for loan applications.

LexisNexis spokesperson Paul Eckloff disputes that freezing was an overreach. The company deemed that step as necessary to honor the requests submitted by Atlas users to not disclose their data. “This company couldn’t be more dedicated to supporting law enforcement,” he says. “We would support common sense protections.” But he described Daniel’s Law as overly punitive.

To Adkisson, the people being punished were the cops, judges, and other government workers he had met on his Jeep excursions through New Jersey. Among them were police officers Justyna Maloney, 38, and her husband, Sergeant Scott Maloney, 46, who work in Rahway, a tiny city along the border with New York City.

In April 2023, Justyna was filmed by a YouTuber who runs the channel Long Island Audit, which has over 842,000 subscribers. He often films himself trying to goad police into misbehavior, and Justyna asking him to leave a government office became his newest viral hit. Followers inundated the Rahway Police’s Facebook page with about 6,500 comments, including death threats, slurs, and links to the Maloneys’ address and phone numbers on SearchPeopleFREE.com and Whitepages. Scott says Facebook wouldn’t remove the comments linking to the contact information. Neither would the police department, citing First Amendment concerns. Tensions boiled.

In August 2023, Scott received texts demanding $3,000 or “your family will be responsible for paying me in blood.” The texts listed his sister’s name and address. An hour later, the same number sent a video of two ski-masked individuals bearing guns inside an unknown location. Atlas wasn’t up and running yet, so Scott, determined to delete all his family’s contact data online, sat on his lagoonside deck every evening for weeks, crushing Michelob Ultras to stay calm as he navigated takedown forms. He put in so many requests to Whitepages for his family that it barred him from making more.

The Facebook comments linking to the Maloneys’ address only came down after they sued their bosses last November for violating Daniel’s Law. This past January, a state judge ruled that the risk to the couple “far outweighs” potential harm to the police department from censorship complaints.

As Adkisson looked to sue noncompliant data websites, he had no trouble signing up the Maloneys as plaintiffs. And because Daniel’s law now made it possible, thanks to Atlas and the police union’s lobbying, to collect guaranteed penalties from data websites, Adkisson had been able to secure five law firms, including prominent national firms Boies Schiller Flexner and Morgan & Morgan, and some attorneys who personally knew the Daniel of “Daniel’s Law.”

On February 6, Atlas and the legal team began filing lawsuits, naming the Maloneys and about 20,000 other clients as plaintiffs. In state court, 110 cases remain unresolved across five different counties. Thirty-six lawsuits are being contested in federal court before Judge Harvey Bartle III, who is based in Philadelphia but commutes across the Delaware River to Camden, New Jersey, because judges based in the state were conflicted out by virtue of being eligible for Daniel’s Law protections.

Eight defendants quickly filed motions to dismiss in state court, but they were all denied. At the federal level, most companies are arguing together that the New Jersey statute violates their First Amendment right to freedom of speech. It’s an argument that’s allowed personal information to stay online before. Federal courts have given leeway to publication of lawmakers’ contact information and actors’ birthdates, leaving doubts over whether cops and judges and their homes and phones would fare any better.

Defendants have told Bartle to consider a US Supreme Court decision in 2011 that found a law in Vermont that protected doctors’ privacy unreasonably singled out data use by drugmakers. Atlas’ foes view Daniel’s Law as similarly arbitrary because it holds New Jersey agencies to different standards than their companies when it comes to keeping data private. They also say it’s unfair that they must remove numbers that cops still list on personal websites.

Some companies fighting the lawsuits note that the $1,000 penalty that the law guarantees may lead to companies acting out of fear and removing more data than needed, or honoring requests that are actually invalid. What’s more, these defendants say that Atlas’ true motivation is money. They claim that instead of trying to quickly protect those already signed up when last year’s amendments passed, Atlas sought out more users to run up the potential monetary judgment and duped them into paying for protections they could exercise for free themselves.

Adkisson disputes the accusations. He says Atlas needed time to finish its platform and ensure it was able to properly log usage, so that judges wouldn’t dismiss cases based on technicalities like takedown requests ending up in spam folders. The startup also won’t be profiting from the lawsuit, he says. Two-thirds of any proceeds will go to the users represented; anything he and Atlas are left with after covering the costs of bringing the lawsuits would be donated to law enforcement charities and privacy advocacy groups through Atlas’ nonprofit arm, Coalition for Data Privacy and Security. Privacy is “a very real, tactical, and visceral need,” Adkisson says.

He was reminded of that this past May when he took WIRED in his Jeep to meet with Peter Andreyev, a cop in Point Pleasant Beach, New Jersey, and president of the statewide Policemen's Benevolent Association. Around dusk that day, Adkisson handed Andreyev a search result for his name on DataTree.com, a website that sells property records. Andreyev slipped on his black-rimmed glasses and brought his linebacker figure toward a conference table to review the page. It took him just two seconds to tense up. “Oh shit,” he said.

He stared at a street-view image of his home, and a birds-eye shot with his address overlaid. The square footage was in there too, for good measure. His head visibly rattling and legs restless, Andreyev pounded the table. “I—I’m pretty infuriated by this.”

Like many law enforcement officers, the 51-year-old rarely goes a day without nightmares about some known thug or detractor attacking him and his family. The DataTree printout reinforced for him that it would take just a few clicks for anyone to target him in the vulnerability of his own home. WIRED pulled up Andreyev’s report from DataTree with just a free trial.

As Andreyev continued to study the page, Adkisson pointed out something he viewed as particularly galling. In February, Atlas had sued First American, the $6 billion title insurance company that operates DataTree, for allegedly not complying with removal requests. Andreyev had been listed as one of the lead plaintiffs, alongside the Maloneys. In the following weeks, DataTree removed Andreyev’s address from one section of the search result for his name but left it up on the map that Andreyev was now staring at. “That’s no way compliant,” Andreyev said. “Fuck, it pisses me off.” First American declined to comment. As the legal battle plays out, Andreyev says he's left to continue looking over his shoulder—even at home.

The antidote of making officers more difficult to find could require greater creativity from those investigating or advertising to them, says Neil Richards, a Washington University School of Law professor and author of Why Privacy Matters. But it doesn’t make the work impossible. Richards, who isn’t involved in the Atlas litigation, says courts need to recognize that “privacy protections are a fundamental First Amendment concern, and one that's even more important than a company's ability to make money trafficking in phone numbers and home addresses.”

In the coming months, Judge Bartle will decide whether cops and judges living in fear imperils public safety. If so, he’ll have to settle whether Daniel’s Law is the least onerous solution. A loss for Atlas and its clients would effectively be treating “anything done with information” as free expression, Richards says, and stymie further attempts to regulate the digital world.

On the other hand, a victory for Atlas could be a boon for its business. Adkisson says tens of thousands of people across the country have joined the company’s waiting list: prison nurses, paramedics, teachers. All of them, he adds, anticipating someday gaining the same removal power as New Jerseyans. Since the beginning of 2023, at least seven states have passed similar measures to Daniel’s Law. None of those, however, include the monetary penalty that gets lawyers interested in pursuing enforcement. “Step one is, win here,” Adkisson says, referring to New Jersey.

After the dispiriting start, he thinks momentum is swinging in Atlas’ favor. In August, the startup raised its first funding since 2021, about $8.5 million in litigation financing and equity investment.

Adkisson says compliance with more recent removal requests is increasing, and a few defendants are settling. In September, a state judge approved the first deal, in which NJParcels.com owner Areaplot admitted to 28,230 violations of Daniel’s Law and accepted five years of oversight. PogoData, a revenue-less website that had made property owners’ names searchable, settled this month. Bill Wetzel, its 79-year-old hobbyist owner, would owe $20 million for breaching the deal but he says he supports removing names of officers in harm’s way.

Then again, against the better-funded defendants with more at stake and unpredictable courts, Adkisson recognizes that a broader victory for privacy and Atlas is uncertain. In telling his story, he wants to ensure there’s opportunity for people to learn from any missteps if Atlas fails. But his advisers, including former boss Steve Avalone, don’t expect Adkisson to give up easy. They describe him as the ultimate gadfly—unorthodox, tenacious, and wealthy. “There’s few people with that horsepower and that charisma,” Avalone says.

For his part, Adkisson says he’s driven by a sad truth. The tragedies, fueled in part by contact information online, that judge Salas wanted to bring an end to after her son’s murder haven’t stopped. Last October, a man allegedly shot to death Andrew Wilkinson, a Maryland state judge, who hours earlier had denied the man custody of his child. The National Center for State Courts said it was the third targeted shooting of a state judge in as many years.

Maryland investigators say they believe the now-deceased assailant found Wilkinson’s address online, though they never recovered definitive evidence beyond a search query for the judge’s name. When he heard about the murder the day it happened, Adkisson immediately googled Wilkinson. His address was right there.

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midnight-scrivener · 5 months ago

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Okay. OKAY. okay. So the thing about Newt's villain arc in Uprising is that there are a lot of scenarios in which a villain arc Feels Inevitable For Him. There are so many worlds in which a fall from grace as a consequence of his own hubris, the tiny part of his heart and conscience that's left intact screaming for help behind a facade that is so choked by alien hate that no one hears him? There are like So Many Worlds where that Fucking Rules.

And Uprising chose none of those paths.

I think the arc we're left with for Newt by the end of Uprising feels so empty because it rejects so much of the worldbuilding established by the first film. The Anteverse of the original film felt... Eldritch, cosmic (like a lot of del Toro specials do, to be fair). The second movie never explores that, we never learn more about the Precursors or how their ties to Newt change him in ways that reflect their own existence, except for "Precursor Bad, So Now Newt Bad." We got such an interesting taste of a whole other universe filled with these weird fuckin.... Meat machines and bug conquerors and clone armies, this like wild Technicolor HR Gigerian nightmarescape, and the sequel took that and gave it this disconnected silicon-valley makeover. The Precursors stopped feeling otherworldly and started just. Feeling like douchebags.

And beyond that, the film completely misunderstands Newt's role in the narrative. By reducing him to a toady, someone who follows a Big Tech Boss around and nods and smiles, it swats aside all of the Really Interesting flaws that he already has in favor of making him a generic asshole. Namely, Newt is a shortsighted, vainglorious, fame-seeking selfish jerk who's so convinced of his own brilliance that he can't fathom anything he does ever having consequences for himself, let alone other people. And like. I love him so much. He has a lot of positive qualities too, qualities that make him so concerned for humanity that he sets aside his anti-establishment misgivings and joins the Fucking Military because he thinks he can do some good there, but his flaws are Not Subtle in the first film At All. The fact that he can be a good person and still Suck Total Shit is I think why he's such an enduring fan favorite today (aside from tumblr's eterna-boner for lame gay nerds). And Uprising once again chooses to ignore the tenuous line between good and bad qualities presented by the first film in favor of a much more bland slick, yucky asshole vibe (He feels like a late-phase MCU villain tbh). Like I genuinely don't think Newt should have been able to keep his head down and take everyone's shit long enough for his plan in Uprising to work. One of his most iconic lines in the original flick is "Yeah! Or I'd be a rockstar!" He's very intentionally someone who doesn't cope well with playing second fiddle.

(and I need to clarify that i do understand that it's supposed to be out of character because it's the Precursors puppeting him, I just think it's boring lmao. And I think that after drifting with him, Hermann should have realized something was wrong immediately and tore him a new asshole about it. I get that they justified the choice. I just think it was a terrible choice lol)

(Also He Is A Biologist. Why Would You Have His Arc Be About Going Into Tech That He Had No Experience With)

Newt and the Precursors always felt like parallel forces to me. They have just as much in common with each other as they have against each other. They both have a need to be at the top of the heap, they both need to take stuff apart to understand it. They both feel they deserve to be the last one standing. And, most importantly, they love goop. Can't get enough of the stuff.

(side note I felt like Uprising was really scared of goop? It wasn't wet enough. Everything felt too clean. Give me more slime pleeeaaase)

I'm just saying, why go the white-and-chrome designer sunglasses tech startup route when Punk Rock Mad Scientist is like. Right there.

Why have Newt go into drones and not. Fucking pharmaceuticals??? Fucking clone tech???? He had specialties that (INTENTIONALLY!!!!!!) already paralleled what the Precursors do, why do a 180 and shy away from that, instead of leaning in and committing to the setup?

I don't know, it just feels like Uprising didn't actually like the characters or the story it had to work with, and we all suffered for it.

#the illness is back yall #im out here absolutely senseless about a six year old movie again #also this isn't there to hate on anyone who enjoyed Uprising or Newts part in it #this is just me trying to articulate something I've been feeling since i first saw it #Pacific Rim #newt geiszler

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matthew4312 · 2 years ago

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How Your Domain Name Impacts the Success of Your App

A domain name is not just an address; it's the digital identity of your app, influencing its success. Choosing the right domain name is a critical aspect of establishing an online presence, and it goes beyond mere identification. In the vast landscape of the internet, your domain name serves as a brand ambassador, a marketing tool, and a key driver of user engagement.

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Keep it short, relevant, and easy to type to ensure users quickly find and access your app.

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As your app grows, scalability becomes a consideration. A well-thought-out domain name allows for future expansion. Consider the potential evolution of your app and choose a domain name that accommodates growth.

This foresight prevents the need for rebranding or changing domain names as your app expands its features, services, or target audience.

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Choosing a unique domain name helps you avoid legal complications. Ensure that your selected domain does not infringe on existing trademarks or copyrights. Legal disputes over domain names can be time-consuming and costly, potentially harming your app's reputation.

Conduct thorough research along with a tech startup name generator to verify the availability and legality of your chosen domain name.

Final Word

In conclusion, your domain name is a pivotal element in shaping the success of your app. It goes beyond being an address; it's a strategic asset that influences branding, user trust, SEO, user experience, social media engagement, scalability, and legal standing.

Investing time and thought into selecting the right domain name is an essential step in establishing a strong online presence and setting the stage for your app's success in the digital realm.

In the realm of app development, the right domain name is the cornerstone of success. Choosing a domain that aligns with your brand, fosters trust, and aids in SEO is paramount. With Get.Tech, our technology name generator, you get to seamlessly navigate the digital landscape. Elevate your app's identity, user experience, and marketability. Embrace the power of a purposeful domain with Get.Tech, where innovation finds its digital home.

#technology name generator #tech startup name generator

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whatelsehappened · 2 months ago

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it sucks that the 2020s are going to be associated with dumb tech startups with all their dumb names and crypto/nft/generative ai shit. the 2020s need to remembered as the mentally unwell trans woman decade

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feminist-space · 1 year ago

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"Just weeks before the implosion of AllHere, an education technology company that had been showered with cash from venture capitalists and featured in glowing profiles by the business press, America’s second-largest school district was warned about problems with AllHere’s product.

As the eight-year-old startup rolled out Los Angeles Unified School District’s flashy new AI-driven chatbot — an animated sun named “Ed” that AllHere was hired to build for $6 million — a former company executive was sending emails to the district and others that Ed’s workings violated bedrock student data privacy principles.

Those emails were sent shortly before The 74 first reported last week that AllHere, with $12 million in investor capital, was in serious straits. A June 14 statement on the company’s website revealed a majority of its employees had been furloughed due to its “current financial position.” Company founder and CEO Joanna Smith-Griffin, a spokesperson for the Los Angeles district said, was no longer on the job.

Smith-Griffin and L.A. Superintendent Alberto Carvalho went on the road together this spring to unveil Ed at a series of high-profile ed tech conferences, with the schools chief dubbing it the nation’s first “personal assistant” for students and leaning hard into LAUSD’s place in the K-12 AI vanguard. He called Ed’s ability to know students “unprecedented in American public education” at the ASU+GSV conference in April.

Through an algorithm that analyzes troves of student information from multiple sources, the chatbot was designed to offer tailored responses to questions like “what grade does my child have in math?” The tool relies on vast amounts of students’ data, including their academic performance and special education accommodations, to function.

Meanwhile, Chris Whiteley, a former senior director of software engineering at AllHere who was laid off in April, had become a whistleblower. He told district officials, its independent inspector general’s office and state education officials that the tool processed student records in ways that likely ran afoul of L.A. Unified’s own data privacy rules and put sensitive information at risk of getting hacked. None of the agencies ever responded, Whiteley told The 74.

...

In order to provide individualized prompts on details like student attendance and demographics, the tool connects to several data sources, according to the contract, including Welligent, an online tool used to track students’ special education services. The document notes that Ed also interfaces with the Whole Child Integrated Data stored on Snowflake, a cloud storage company. Launched in 2019, the Whole Child platform serves as a central repository for LAUSD student data designed to streamline data analysis to help educators monitor students’ progress and personalize instruction.

Whiteley told officials the app included students’ personally identifiable information in all chatbot prompts, even in those where the data weren’t relevant. Prompts containing students’ personal information were also shared with other third-party companies unnecessarily, Whiteley alleges, and were processed on offshore servers. Seven out of eight Ed chatbot requests, he said, are sent to places like Japan, Sweden, the United Kingdom, France, Switzerland, Australia and Canada.

Taken together, he argued the company’s practices ran afoul of data minimization principles, a standard cybersecurity practice that maintains that apps should collect and process the least amount of personal information necessary to accomplish a specific task. Playing fast and loose with the data, he said, unnecessarily exposed students’ information to potential cyberattacks and data breaches and, in cases where the data were processed overseas, could subject it to foreign governments’ data access and surveillance rules.

Chatbot source code that Whiteley shared with The 74 outlines how prompts are processed on foreign servers by a Microsoft AI service that integrates with ChatGPT. The LAUSD chatbot is directed to serve as a “friendly, concise customer support agent” that replies “using simple language a third grader could understand.” When querying the simple prompt “Hello,” the chatbot provided the student’s grades, progress toward graduation and other personal information.

AllHere’s critical flaw, Whiteley said, is that senior executives “didn’t understand how to protect data.”

...

Earlier in the month, a second threat actor known as Satanic Cloud claimed it had access to tens of thousands of L.A. students’ sensitive information and had posted it for sale on Breach Forums for $1,000. In 2022, the district was victim to a massive ransomware attack that exposed reams of sensitive data, including thousands of students’ psychological evaluations, to the dark web.

With AllHere’s fate uncertain, Whiteley blasted the company’s leadership and protocols.

“Personally identifiable information should be considered acid in a company and you should only touch it if you have to because acid is dangerous,” he told The 74. “The errors that were made were so egregious around PII, you should not be in education if you don’t think PII is acid.”

Read the full article here:

https://www.the74million.org/article/whistleblower-l-a-schools-chatbot-misused-student-data-as-tech-co-crumbled/

#data breach #lausd #la school system #tech bro ai being reckless with personal data as usual #anti ai

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kanguin · 7 months ago

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Prometheus Gave the Gift of Fire to Mankind. We Can't Give it Back, nor Should We.

AI. Artificial intelligence. Large Language Models. Learning Algorithms. Deep Learning. Generative Algorithms. Neural Networks. This technology has many names, and has been a polarizing topic in numerous communities online. By my observation, a lot of the discussion is either solely focused on A) how to profit off it or B) how to get rid of it and/or protect yourself from it. But to me, I feel both of these perspectives apply a very narrow usage lens on something that's more than a get rich quick scheme or an evil plague to wipe from the earth.

This is going to be long, because as someone whose degree is in psych and computer science, has been a teacher, has been a writing tutor for my younger brother, and whose fiance works in freelance data model training... I have a lot to say about this.

I'm going to address the profit angle first, because I feel most people in my orbit (and in related orbits) on Tumblr are going to agree with this: flat out, the way AI is being utilized by large corporations and tech startups -- scraping mass amounts of visual and written works without consent and compensation, replacing human professionals in roles from concept art to story boarding to screenwriting to customer service and more -- is unethical and damaging to the wellbeing of people, would-be hires and consumers alike. It's wasting energy having dedicated servers running nonstop generating content that serves no greater purpose, and is even pressing on already overworked educators because plagiarism just got a very new, harder to identify younger brother that's also infinitely more easy to access.

In fact, ChatGPT is such an issue in the education world that plagiarism-detector subscription services that take advantage of how overworked teachers are have begun paddling supposed AI-detectors to schools and universities. Detectors that plainly DO NOT and CANNOT work, because the difference between "A Writer Who Writes Surprisingly Well For Their Age" is indistinguishable from "A Language Replicating Algorithm That Followed A Prompt Correctly", just as "A Writer Who Doesn't Know What They're Talking About Or Even How To Write Properly" is indistinguishable from "A Language Replicating Algorithm That Returned Bad Results". What's hilarious is that the way these "detectors" work is also run by AI.

(to be clear, I say plagiarism detectors like TurnItIn.com and such are predatory because A) they cost money to access advanced features that B) often don't work properly or as intended with several false flags, and C) these companies often are super shady behind the scenes; TurnItIn for instance has been involved in numerous lawsuits over intellectual property violations, as their services scrape (or hopefully scraped now) the papers submitted to the site without user consent (or under coerced consent if being forced to use it by an educator), which it uses in can use in its own databases as it pleases, such as for training the AI detecting AI that rarely actually detects AI.)

The prevalence of visual and lingustic generative algorithms is having multiple, overlapping, and complex consequences on many facets of society, from art to music to writing to film and video game production, and even in the classroom before all that, so it's no wonder that many disgruntled artists and industry professionals are online wishing for it all to go away and never come back. The problem is... It can't. I understand that there's likely a large swath of people saying that who understand this, but for those who don't: AI, or as it should more properly be called, generative algorithms, didn't just show up now (they're not even that new), and they certainly weren't developed or invented by any of the tech bros peddling it to megacorps and the general public.

Long before ChatGPT and DALL-E came online, generative algorithms were being used by programmers to simulate natural processes in weather models, shed light on the mechanics of walking for roboticists and paleontologists alike, identified patterns in our DNA related to disease, aided in complex 2D and 3D animation visuals, and so on. Generative algorithms have been a part of the professional world for many years now, and up until recently have been a general force for good, or at the very least a force for the mundane. It's only recently that the technology involved in creating generative algorithms became so advanced AND so readily available, that university grad students were able to make the publicly available projects that began this descent into madness.

Does anyone else remember that? That years ago, somewhere in the late 2010s to the beginning of the 2020s, these novelty sites that allowed you to generate vague images from prompts, or generate short stylistic writings from a short prompt, were popping up with University URLs? Oftentimes the queues on these programs were hours long, sometimes eventually days or weeks or months long, because of how unexpectedly popular this concept was to the general public. Suddenly overnight, all over social media, everyone and their grandma, and not just high level programming and arts students, knew this was possible, and of course, everyone wanted in. Automated art and writing, isn't that neat? And of course, investors saw dollar signs. Simply scale up the process, scrape the entire web for data to train the model without advertising that you're using ALL material, even copyrighted and personal materials, and sell the resulting algorithm for big money. As usual, startup investors ruin every new technology the moment they can access it.

To most people, it seemed like this magic tech popped up overnight, and before it became known that the art assets on later models were stolen, even I had fun with them. I knew how learning algorithms worked, if you're going to have a computer make images and text, it has to be shown what that is and then try and fail to make its own until it's ready. I just, rather naively as I was still in my early 20s, assumed that everything was above board and the assets were either public domain or fairly licensed. But when the news did came out, and when corporations started unethically implementing "AI" in everything from chatbots to search algorithms to asking their tech staff to add AI to sliced bread, those who were impacted and didn't know and/or didn't care where generative algorithms came from wanted them GONE. And like, I can't blame them. But I also quietly acknowledged to myself that getting rid of a whole technology is just neither possible nor advisable. The cat's already out of the bag, the genie has left its bottle, the Pandorica is OPEN. If we tried to blanket ban what people call AI, numerous industries involved in making lives better would be impacted. Because unfortunately the same tool that can edit selfies into revenge porn has also been used to identify cancer cells in patients and aided in decoding dead languages, among other things.

When, in Greek myth, Prometheus gave us the gift of fire, he gave us both a gift and a curse. Fire is so crucial to human society, it cooks our food, it lights our cities, it disposes of waste, and it protects us from unseen threats. But fire also destroys, and the same flame that can light your home can burn it down. Surely, there were people in this mythic past who hated fire and all it stood for, because without fire no forest would ever burn to the ground, and surely they would have called for fire to be given back, to be done away with entirely. Except, there was no going back. The nature of life is that no new element can ever be undone, it cannot be given back.

So what's the way forward, then? Like, surely if I can write a multi-paragraph think piece on Tumblr.com that next to nobody is going to read because it's long as sin, about an unpopular topic, and I rarely post original content anyway, then surely I have an idea of how this cyberpunk dystopia can be a little less.. Dys. Well I do, actually, but it's a long shot. Thankfully, unlike business majors, I actually had to take a cyber ethics course in university, and I actually paid attention. I also passed preschool where I learned taking stuff you weren't given permission to have is stealing, which is bad. So the obvious solution is to make some fucking laws to limit the input on data model training on models used for public products and services. It's that simple. You either use public domain and licensed data only or you get fined into hell and back and liable to lawsuits from any entity you wronged, be they citizen or very wealthy mouse conglomerate (suing AI bros is the only time Mickey isn't the bigger enemy). And I'm going to be honest, tech companies are NOT going to like this, because not only will it make doing business more expensive (boo fucking hoo), they'd very likely need to throw out their current trained datasets because of the illegal components mixed in there. To my memory, you can't simply prune specific content from a completed algorithm, you actually have to redo rhe training from the ground up because the bad data would be mixed in there like gum in hair. And you know what, those companies deserve that. They deserve to suffer a punishment, and maybe fold if they're young enough, for what they've done to creators everywhere. Actually, laws moving forward isn't enough, this needs to be retroactive. These companies need to be sued into the ground, honestly.

So yeah, that's the mess of it. We can't unlearn and unpublicize any technology, even if it's currently being used as a tool of exploitation. What we can do though is demand ethical use laws and organize around the cause of the exclusive rights of individuals to the content they create. The screenwriter's guild, actor's guild, and so on already have been fighting against this misuse, but given upcoming administration changes to the US, things are going to get a lot worse before thet get a little better. Even still, don't give up, have clear and educated goals, and focus on what you can do to affect change, even if right now that's just individual self-care through mental and physical health crises like me.

#ai #artificial intelligence #generative algorithms #llm #large language model #chatgpt #ai art #ai writing #kanguin original

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