#Legal Awareness Program

[balu88r-blog]

Lok Adalat - ಜುಲೈ 12 ರಂದು ನಡೆಯಲಿರುವ ಲೋಕ್ ಅದಾಲತ್ ಸದುಪಯೋಗ ಪಡಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳಲು ಕರೆ: ನ್ಯಾ.ಸವಿತಾ

Lok Adalat – ಚಿಕ್ಕಬಳ್ಳಾಪುರ ಜಿಲ್ಲೆಯ ಗುಡಿಬಂಡೆ ಪಟ್ಟಣದ ನ್ಯಾಯಾಲಯ ಆವರಣದಲ್ಲಿ ತಾಲೂಕು ಕಾನೂನು ಸೇವಾ ಸಮಿತಿ, ವಕೀಲರ ಸಂಘದ ವತಿಯಿಂದ ಜುಲೈ 12 ರಂದು ರಾಷ್ಟ್ರೀಯ ಲೋಕ ಅದಾಲತ್ ಹಮ್ಮಿಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದು, ಈ ಕಾರ್ಯಕ್ರಮವನ್ನು ಸಾರ್ವಜನಿಕರು ಸದ್ಬಳಕೆ ಮಾಡಿಕೊಳ್ಳಬೇಕೆಂದು ಜೆ.ಎಂ.ಎಫ್.ಸಿ ನ್ಯಾಯಾಧೀಶೆ ಸವಿತಾ ರುದ್ರಗೌಡ ಚಿಕ್ಕನಗೌಡರ್‍ ತಿಳಿಸಿದರು. Lok Adalat – ಏನಿದು ಲೋಕ ಅದಾಲತ್? ಈ ಕುರಿತು ಗುಡಿಬಂಡೆ ಪಟ್ಟಣದ ಜೆ.ಎಂ.ಎಫ್.ಸಿ ನ್ಯಾಯಾಲಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಏರ್ಪಡಿಸಿದ್ದ ಪೂರ್ವಭಾವಿ ಸಭೆಯಲ್ಲಿ…

[townpostin]

New Criminal Laws Unveiled at DLSA Jamshedpur Seminar

Legal experts educate attendees on India’s updated justice system DLSA Jamshedpur hosts seminar to explain new criminal laws replacing IPC, CrPC, and Evidence Act. JAMSHEDPUR – A legal awareness program and seminar were conducted by the District Legal Services Authority (DLSA) of Jamshedpur at Co-operative College. The program concentrated on the recently enacted criminal laws of India. The…

[kids-worldfun]

Empowering Young Drivers: The Value of Awareness Programs

Young drivers often hit the road with a mix of excitement and inexperience. Unfortunately, this cocktail, while intoxicating to their sense of freedom, carries inherent risks. That’s why it is important to empower this group through awareness programs. Such initiatives hold tremendous social value akin to giving young drivers the keys to not just a vehicle but to responsible adulthood. In this…

[suliigwp]

YOU'VE BEEN—GETTING TO ME LATELY

max verstappen x reader | fluff?, part two

SULI: Part two is here! Omg suli writing adults acting like adults?🙀 Hope you guys like this and the next fic I post will be tronabs next chapter🫶🫶🫶

SUMMARY: You and Max find that the world didn't end when you were nineteen and dumb. Part one here!

WORD COUNT: 6,904

WARNINGS: little swearing, tiny mentions of sexual acts, y/n usage.

The email came at 9:42 AM.

She was halfway through her second coffee, a pencil between her teeth, red ink bleeding across a contract in her lap. Her phone buzzed once — then again — then lit up with the subject line:

Welcome to the FIA Legal Counsel Program – Assigned Placement: Red Bull Racing.

She blinked.

Once.Twice.

Then she slowly lowered her coffee to the desk, rereading the words.

Red Bull Racing.

Red.

Bull.

Fucking. Racing.

The same team she used to watch at seventeen. The same garage she once stood outside of when she was nineteen.

The name still sat bitter in the back of her throat, like the taste of old smoke.

When she arrived at the paddock for the first time, everything felt too loud.

Her heels clicked against the concrete walkways, her team lanyard bounced against her tailored blazer, and the world of Formula 1 swallowed her whole in a matter of seconds.

She kept her gaze forward. Poised. Confident.

Because she didn’t come here to chase ghosts.

She came to do her job — clean contracts, keep the media in check, ensure no dumb lawsuit turned headlines during a championship year.

“You must be the new legal rep,” someone said, offering a hand. “Y/n, right?”

She shook it firmly. “That’s me.”

“We’ve had... a few characters in this role before. Hopefully you’re not another one.”

She smirked. “I bite back, but only when bitten first.”

They laughed. She didn’t.

By mid-afternoon, her badge was cleared, her email connected, and her files organized on a Red Bull–branded tablet. She was already scanning through NDAs when she heard a familiar voice outside the makeshift media room.

The Red Bull garage smelled the same.

Burnt rubber. Warm metal. Engine oil and heat and tension laced into the walls like wallpaper.

It was louder than she remembered. Or maybe she was just more aware of the noise now — the radios crackling, the air compressors hissing, the drone of dozens of conversations happening at once.

Y/n stood just off to the side of the garage’s back offices, tablet in hand, arms folded neatly, blazer sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her badge sat against her chest on a Red Bull–branded lanyard. She hadn’t touched this world in years — not since she was nineteen and too tangled in it to see straight.

Now, at twenty-five, she was here again. Not as a guest. Not as someone’s problem.

As counsel.

FIA Legal Counsel Placement Program. A six-month rotational internship across several F1 teams.

She’d applied thinking she might end up with a midfield team. Maybe Sauber. Maybe Haas.

She hadn’t expected this. Red Bull. His team.

Of all the garages in the world.

She stood perfectly still. Professional. Controlled.

A laminated folder was tucked under her arm — onboarding notes, contact sheets, release forms. The screen of her tablet glowed faintly in the afternoon light, displaying a digital contract. Simple clause addition. Routine. The kind of formality they barely blinked at.

“Driver's on his way,” someone called over their shoulder as they passed. “Media release clause needs signing before press.”

She nodded once. Crisp. “It’s ready.”

And then she heard it — not his voice, but the way the air shifted. Like gravity adjusting. A silence beneath the noise.

He stepped through the back garage entrance, towel slung around his neck, Red Bull polo slightly damp from sim training. Head down, talking to a race engineer — until someone pointed.

“There. She’s got it.”

Max followed the motion.

And his eyes found her.

Still. Sharp. Hesitation locked between his brows for just a moment.

Then he walked forward.

The last time she’d seen him in person, they we're yelling at each other like it was the only thing keeping them alive.

Now he was coming straight toward her with a signature to give and no reason to speak.

“Legal?” he asked, voice flatter than she remembered. Neutral.

“Y/n,” she corrected calmly. “FIA Legal Placement. Assigned to Red Bull until Singapore.”

She didn’t offer her hand.

Just extended the tablet toward him, already preloaded to the clause in question.

He reached for it — paused for a heartbeat — then took it.

She watched as he skimmed it.

“This is the revised media clause?”

“Yes. Covers third-party publication rights and image reproduction, effective immediately. It’s standard.”

He nodded once. Didn’t say anything. His thumb hovered over the e-signature box.

Then he signed. Clean. Precise.

He handed the tablet back.

“You’ll need copies?”

“They’re automatically sent to team PR and the FIA archive,” she replied. “I’ll flag you if anything new gets added.”

A pause. Just long enough to register.

Max looked like he might say something else. But then — he didn’t.

His mouth opened slightly, then shut.

Y/n cleared her throat gently. “Is there anything further you need from legal before media?”

“No. That’s it.”

“Understood.”

She took one step back. A formal nod.

“Have a good session, Mr. Verstappen.”

His expression twitched.

“Max is fine.”

She gave the smallest smile — the kind people use in courtrooms when they’re winning.

“Noted.”

And then she turned and walked away — her steps quiet, controlled, like she couldn’t feel the burn still pulsing just beneath her skin.

…

The paddock had quieted by evening.

Most of the staff had cleared out after post-session debriefs, the lights in the Red Bull garage dimmed to standby mode. Outside, the sunset bled gold across the concrete, casting long shadows over empty pit boxes and tire stacks.

Y/n was still at her workstation — a temporary desk set up inside the operations trailer, stacked with contracts, review notes, and a cold coffee she’d forgotten to drink. Her blazer was draped over the back of the chair, heels kicked off under the desk.

She was halfway through redlining a sponsor clause when a knock rapped softly against the doorframe.

She looked up. Her heart didn’t race — not visibly. But her hand paused mid-line.

Max leaned one shoulder against the door. Black hoodie. Joggers. His hair damp, probably from a shower after sim debriefs. There was something strangely casual about it. Like he wasn’t still the most talked-about man on the grid.

“Hey,” he said. “You busy?”

She blinked at him. Then flicked her eyes toward her screen, then back.

“Kind of.”

“It won’t take long.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Just stepped in and closed the door behind him with a soft click. The tiny space suddenly felt smaller.

She sat straighter. Cleared her throat. “Is this about the media clause?”

“No. It’s... kind of related.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Which part?”

Max scratched the back of his neck. A familiar tic. One she used to call out when they were kids playing at love.

“You mentioned something about third-party rights,” he said, avoiding her gaze just enough to make it obvious. “Is that like... photo tags? Or just licensing?”

Her mouth twitched. He knew what it meant. Of course he did. He’d signed hundreds of these. But she didn’t call him on it.

“It’s about usage rights,” she said. “Any footage or photos the team captures can be sold or repurposed — ads, promos, stuff like that. It’s standard.”

He nodded. “Right. Thought so.”

She let the silence hang.

“Was that all?”

Max shifted his weight. Looked around the trailer like he’d never been inside it before. His eyes landed on the open file beside her.

“You’re really organized,” he murmured.

“You’re bad at pretending this is about legal questions.”

That made him smile — small, lopsided, surprised.

She hated how familiar it still felt. How warm it used to make her chest.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe I didn’t come just for that.”

“Shocking.”

Another pause.

“I didn’t know you were coming here,” he said quietly.

Y/n closed her laptop lid with a soft click. Leaned back.

“Neither did I. It was a placement. They assigned me after Silverstone.”

“You think they knew?”

“Probably.” She gave a dry laugh. “But I signed the contract anyway. Didn’t seem like a good enough reason to say no.”

“Still,” he said. “Kind of a weird reunion.”

She folded her arms. “Weirder than you showing up at my desk asking about image rights?”

That earned a quiet chuckle. “Fair.”

There was a moment then — not long, but not short either. Where he looked at her and she looked back, and neither of them said what they were clearly thinking.

Then—

“You look good,” he said, almost like it slipped out.

Her pulse kicked. She looked at him, he kept her gaze.

Y/n exhaled slowly. Her voice, when it came, was level.

“You too. The championships suit you. Congratulations, by the way.”

He nodded in silent thank you.

He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t sit heavy on his shoulders some days.

“I saw your name on the bar results last year,” he said. “You trended for a bit.”

She tilted her head. “You googled me?”

“No. Someone sent it. Couldn’t miss it if I tried.”

“Right. Must’ve been awful for you.”

His smile tugged again, crooked. “It wasn’t awful.”

“Hm.”

Another silence. This one... gentler.

He stepped forward just slightly. Not close enough to cross a line. But enough to notice. To remind her that they used to stand a lot closer than this. In darker rooms. With a lot fewer clothes.

“This is weird,” he said.

“Very.”

“But not as bad as I thought it’d be.”

“Same.”She nodded once, slow and quiet.

“We’re older now,” she said. “A little less reckless.”

Max let out a breath through his nose — not quite a laugh.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

She looked over at him, and for a second, neither of them said anything. There was something there, buried in the silence — not anger, not regret. Just history. The kind that doesn’t ask to be named.

Then, softer:

“I’m not angry anymore,” she said. “Haven’t been for a while.”

Max didn’t respond immediately.

But when he looked at her, it was different this time — more direct. Like he finally let himself acknowledge what he was looking at.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me neither.”

The pause that followed wasn’t tense. It just… was. Heavy with what they didn’t say. What they weren’t ready to revisit.

“We were young,” she murmured.

“And stupid,” he added.

She gave the smallest nod. “You especially.”

That made his mouth twitch — barely. But he didn’t argue.

“We handled everything wrong,” she said after a second. Not accusing. Just honest.

“Yeah,” he said. “We did.”

No apology. No explanation. Just mutual recognition. Like survivors of the same wreck.

Something shifted then — not closure, but maybe something close to calm.

Max pushed away from the desk, straightening.

He glanced at her desk again. At the open folder, the legal pad covered in scribbles.

“Well. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Appreciated.”

He moved toward the door, hand resting on the handle — then stopped.

“If it ever gets... I don’t know. Too weird. Let me know.”

She met his eyes. “You too.”

He nodded once.

Then pushed the door open, the hallway light spilling across the floor.

“Good night, y/n.”

“Night, Max.”

And just like that, he was gone.

She didn’t let herself move for a few seconds.

Didn’t let herself think too hard about the way her name sounded in his voice again.

Then she opened her laptop and went back to work — as if her hands weren’t shaking.

…

The van was cramped.

It always was during race weekends — a rotating mess of PR reps, engineers, comms staff, and whoever else needed to be shuttled between the paddock and the track hotel. Today, they’d crammed seven people into a vehicle made for five. Middle seats squished, bags tossed under legs, knees bumping, elbows tucked awkwardly to avoid full-on war.

Y/n slid in last, her blazer folded neatly in her lap, laptop bag clutched tight to her side.

She took the far left of the third row, back seat. Pressed up against the window. She’d assumed the empty space beside her would stay that way.

Then Max climbed in.

He didn’t say anything — just nodded once, gave a polite enough smile to the intern sitting near the door, and wedged himself into the spot next to her like he hadn’t once had her legs over his shoulders.

Their arms brushed immediately. There was no avoiding it. His thigh pressed against hers every time the driver took a turn too sharp.

Y/n shifted. Just slightly. Enough to create the illusion of space without making it obvious.

He didn’t move.

She stared ahead. At the back of the headrest in front of her. She could feel him glance sideways once or twice, but he didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

Ten minutes into the ride, someone up front cracked a joke — something about one of the Red Bull mechanics and his “mystery blonde from Monaco.” It spiraled quickly into a string of stories. Flings. Exes. Drunken regrets.

“Tell me you saw Nico sneaking out of La Rascasse with that mystery blonde in Monaco!”

The middle-row engineer barked a laugh.

“Mystery? She was filmed on three fan cams. Nico’s doomed.”

PR manager Jen chimed in:

“Guys, if there isn’t an NDA, I don’t want to hear it.”

Nico, somewhere in the middle seat, groaned:

“No NDA, Just pain.”

Laughter filled the van. Someone launched into a competition of worst situationships:

“I once ghosted a girl and found out she was our tyre rep’s niece.”

“Please, I ended up at a wedding seated next to my ex’s new fiancée.”

“Top that? I accidentally texted my ex a voice note rant—meant for my therapist.”

The stories rolled on—names omitted, embarrassment shared.

“Okay, wait—” someone in the middle row cut in, laughter still bubbling, “I’ve got the worst one. Listen.”

The whole van went quiet, waiting.

“It was uni. I hooked up with this guy for like... eight months. We weren't dating, we weren't friends. Thought I was over it until we both showed up working the same internship two years later.”

A collective groan rippled through the van.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” she replied, grinning. “Same office, same meetings, same everything. And of course, he walks in like it was all ancient history and I’m sitting there pretending I don’t remember exactly what he sounds like at 2 a.m.”

Laughter again. Someone muttered, “That’s criminal.”

She added. “Just said, ‘Nice to see you again,’ like we hadn’t ruined each other’s sleep cycles for an entire semester.”

More laughter.

But in the very back row, Y/n didn’t laugh. Neither did Max.

At the same time—like muscle memory—they both turned slightly. Eyes met.

Just for a second.

And then just as quickly, they looked away.

She refocused on the raindrops racing down the glass.

He looked down at his hands.

Laughter echoed all the way to the back row.

Max exhaled through his nose. A quiet huff. Amused or annoyed — she couldn’t tell.

“You’d think PR would stop talking like that when there’s a lawyer in the car.”

His voice was casual, low enough not to carry forward. But it was meant for her.

She didn’t even glance at him.

“You’d think a three-time world champion would stop needing legal cleanups.”

His lips twitched. The barest hint of a smirk. She caught it in the reflection of the window — quick and crooked and too familiar.

Silence followed.

A pothole hit. Not hard, but enough to jolt the frame of the van. Their knees knocked.

Neither of them shifted.

She pretended to read something on her phone. He ran a hand through his hair like the movement might burn some of the tension off.

Outside, the rain started.

Inside, it was warm. Too warm. His shoulder brushed hers again when he adjusted his position. She could smell his cologne — faint, sharp, still the same brand he’d used when they were nineteen and stupid.

Another bump. Another contact.

Still, no one moved.

The conversation in the front row shifted to pit lane rumors. Max leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. His voice was lower this time, meant just for her.

“This doesn’t have to be weird, you know.”

Y/n didn’t look at him.

“It’s not weird.”

“You’re gripping your phone like it owes you rent.”

She eased her fingers — only a little.

She looked away again. The van slowed, pulling into the hotel drive. The end of the ride couldn’t have come sooner.

Still, for one small, loaded second, neither of them made the first move to get out.

…

It poured.

The kind of storm that made even the paddock feel slow. Media was postponed. FP1 delayed. Mechanics leaned on carts, PR staff checked forecasts they couldn’t change, and drivers lingered inside hospitality trying not to look bored.

Y/n sat near the back, tucked on a bench by the window. Her laptop was open on her knees, though she hadn’t typed in ten minutes. Her shoes were off. Her coffee was cold. She stared out at the rain as if watching it fall would tell her when it would stop.

Then Max sat down across from her.

No announcement. No dramatic pause. Just him, damp curls under his hoodie, elbows on his knees like it was any other conversation. Like they hadn’t spent weeks politely orbiting each other without ever making real contact.

She looked up. No smile, no scowl. Just… acknowledgment.

“Still working?” he asked after a moment.

“Always.”

He nodded, eyes flicking to the laptop, then back out the window.

“You used to fall asleep the second you sat still.”

A flicker of something — not a smile, exactly, but close — tugged at her lips.

She didn’t look at him.

“I don’t do a lot of things I used to.”

He leaned forward a little, elbows resting on his thighs.

“Like me?”

That made her pause.

Her fingers stopped hovering above the keyboard. She looked at him — really looked — and something about it softened her face. Not fond, not forgiving. Just… real.

“I don’t think either of us knew what we were doing.”

Max gave a quiet huff of agreement.

“We really thought we had it figured out.”

“We were arrogant as hell.”

“And stubborn.”

“Still are.”

He smiled — small, self-deprecating.

A few seconds passed.

Outside, the rain came down harder. Inside, the quiet felt oddly warm.

“I think about it sometimes,” he said.

She didn’t ask what “it” was. She didn’t need to.

“I try not to,” she said, still watching the rain. “But yeah.”

He shifted again, like the bench didn’t quite sit right.

“I wish I’d handled it better. I was shitty to you,” he said. “I know that.”

She tilted her head, gaze fixed on a droplet racing down the window.

“I wasn’t exactly easy to love, either.”

That pulled something in his expression — not guilt, but something adjacent to it.

Her head tilted, eyes meeting his again. Calm. Measured.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But I still could’ve done more.”

There was something honest about that. Not performative. Not looking for forgiveness. Just… saying it, because it was true.

He looked down at his hands, thumb tracing a line along his palm. Then—

“I don’t know. Maybe I could still make up for it.”

She inhaled slowly. Held it for a beat.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “That’s not what this is.”

“What is this?”

She gave a small shrug, gaze drifting back to the window.

“I think… it’s just now. This moment. And that’s okay.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then:

“Okay.”

No fight. No argument.

Just that.

He stood after a moment, stretching his legs. His hoodie was damp at the shoulders. He looked down at her, something unreadable in his expression.

“If the rain clears, I’ll see you in the garage.”

“Yeah. See you there.”

She didn’t watch him go.

But her fingers didn’t quite settle back on the keys for another minute.

…

The garage was winding down.

Post-race cleanup was mostly done, the main lights dimmed to low, and the air smelled faintly of fuel, metal, and old coffee. Radios buzzed quietly on a shelf near the front, and someone’s leftover Red Bull can rattled across a rolling cart as it passed by.

Y/n was still at her desk in the back corner — the folding one they’d set up next to the tire data screens.

She’d long since taken off her blazer, now draped over the chair’s back, and the cuffs of her white shirt were pushed up to her elbows. A quiet, focused kind of tired hung over her —

She didn’t look up when she heard him.

His footsteps were slower than they’d been during the day — post-debrief, post-shower, post-whatever internal engine he turned off only after the garage had emptied. He stopped a few feet from her desk.

“You’re still here.”

She tapped at her keyboard. “So are you.”

“I don’t have to be. You look like you’re still rewriting half the team contracts.”

“That’s because I am.”

She didn’t smile. But the edge in her voice wasn’t sharp. More like… dry. Familiar.

He took a step closer. Arms crossed loosely over his chest. He was in a hoodie again — same grey one from earlier — with the hood pushed back, hair still damp like he hadn’t bothered to dry it fully after showering.

“Did you eat?”

“Not yet.”

“You should.”

“I’m aware.”

A short pause.

He leaned a hip against the worktable across from her, eyes scanning the mess of highlighted printouts. “You always did like burying yourself in this stuff.”

“Better than being bored.”

“You’re not bored.”

She looked up at him, just briefly. “You think you know that?”

He didn’t answer. Just let a small smile pull at the edge of his mouth — not cocky, not smug. Just Max. Still Max.

The silence stretched.

He shifted his weight slightly, and then, voice lower now:

“Would you wanna grab dinner sometime?”

The words landed softly.

Not forced. Not rehearsed. Just there — like he’d been thinking about it and didn’t feel like pretending he wasn’t.

Y/n didn’t react immediately. She closed the tab she was in. Sat back slightly in her chair. Her eyes stayed on him.

She didn’t frown. Didn’t laugh either.

Just… considered him.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Why now?”

“Because it feels like the first time I could ask without it blowing up.”

She let out a breath. Not quite a sigh.

“Max.”

“It’s just dinner.”

“It’s not just dinner, and you know that.”

“I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m asking if you want to sit across from me at a table and eat something that doesn’t come in a plastic container.”

She didn’t answer that right away.

Instead, she looked down at her laptop. Ran her finger slowly along the edge of the space bar. Then:

“Maybe after the six months are up.”

He was quiet.

“Because of the job?”

She nodded once. “Because it’s complicated enough. And because it’d look bad for both of us. Especially me.”

“Yeah. Makes sense.”

“And because I want to know it’s not just nostalgia or boredom or…” She stopped herself.

“I get it.”

There was no frustration in his voice. No push. Just honesty.

He stood there for another moment before shifting off the table.

“So, ask again in… five and a half months?”

She finally smiled — small, reluctant, a little tired.

“Something like that.”

He took a slow step backward toward the door.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. I want to.”

She didn’t reply.

He didn’t wait for one.

He just gave her a nod — quiet, sure — and turned to go.

She listened to his footsteps fading into the hallway before she let out the breath she’d been holding.

Then she turned back to the screen, reopened the tab, and started typing again.

Week 1

Her name on the team chat thread.

His name in her inbox.

Every reply brief. Polite. Not cold. Just… professional.

Max passes her in the hallway the day after that late-night dinner invitation. He doesn’t say anything. Neither does she.

Week 3

A sponsor dinner. Too many forks. Assigned seating.

She ends up next to Max.

He makes a dry joke about being underdressed. She surprises him with a comeback that makes even Christian stifle a laugh.

Later, she catches him watching her across the table, thumb pressed to his wine glass, half a smile tugging at his lips.

She doesn’t smile back. But her ears burn.

Week 5

Rain delays the race. Everyone’s stuffed into the hospitality suite.

Max is sitting on the floor with a few of the engineers, arguing over a card game. She walks past, coffee in hand, tablet tucked under her arm.

He glances up, says nothig.

Week 7

A team photo day. Chaos. Laughter. Someone brings props.

Y/n stands behind the photographer, clipboard in hand, making sure no one forgets the media waiver.

Max tosses a Red Bull bucket hat on Christian’s head. She snorts, unguarded.

He looks over. That same crooked smile appears — only this time, she doesn’t look away so quickly.

Week 9

A mechanical delay strands half the team on the tarmac in Bahrain.

She ends up sitting next to Max on the shuttle to the hotel.

They talk about anything but the past — the food, the weather, how many suitcases their press officer travels with.

She laughs at one of his jokes. Real, not forced.

He blinks, surprised. Like he hadn’t meant to make her laugh, but likes the sound of it.

Week 11

She catches a cold in Monaco.

Not dramatic. Just enough to keep her wrapped in a scarf and living off throat lozenges for three days.

Max passes her a mug of tea in the garage, no words, no look, just sets it on her desk and walks away.

Week 14

He wins. Again.

The celebration is loud, champagne everywhere. She ducks the worst of it, tucked in the back with legal paperwork in a Ziploc sleeve.

At some point, Max finds her. A little tipsy. Still grinning.

“You gonna fine me if I pour this on you?”

“Try me.”

He doesn’t.

But when he passes, his fingers brush hers just a little longer than they need to.

Week 18

Carlos makes a crack about Max’s “lawyer crush” at a press dinner.

Max kicks him under the table so fast no one notices. Y/n arches a brow across the table but doesn’t comment.

Week 21

A late-night flight home.

They’re both in row 3. Separated by the aisle, but close enough that when turbulence hits, they both glance up at the same time.

He gives her a look — brief, unreadable.

She gives one back — tired, amused, resigned.

She falls asleep. He watches her for a minute longer than he should.

Week 22

She’s sitting alone in the back of the paddock lounge — headphones in, blazer folded neatly beside her, laptop open on the FIA careers page. Her screen shows a half-finished application form.

Max walks past. Stops. Doubles back.

“You applying for the full-time role?”

She pulls one earbud out. Doesn’t answer immediately.

“Thinking about it.”

“You should.”

She glances up.

“You don’t think it’d be... weird? You and me. Same circles again.”

Max shrugs, leaning one shoulder against the frame of the glass wall.

“It’s already weird.”

That earns the barest smile from her.

He watches her for a beat.

“You’d be good there.”

She looks at him — properly this time. Not like a colleague. Not like an echo of what they were.

“Thanks.”

He nods. Pushes off the wall.

“Good luck with it.”

“Thanks, Max.”

He turns to go, but before the door closes behind him, she glances back at her screen — and starts typing again.

Week 24

The final briefing. Six-month mark.

She hands off her badge. Max doesn’t speak to her during the whole meeting.

Afterward, as the others drift out, he finds her in the hallway. Quiet. Tired. Braced.

“So… six months.”

“Yeah.”

“Does that mean I can ask again now?”

She looks at him.

The corner of her mouth tugs upward.

“You can.”

…

The restaurant wasn’t fancy. That’s why he chose it.

Tucked on a quieter street in Monaco, it was dimly lit, warm, tucked-away — the kind of place locals liked and tourists didn’t know. No cameras. No team personnel. Just wine, good food, and quiet.

Y/n arrived just after seven. Max was already at the table, scrolling through his phone, a half-full glass of water in front of him.

He looked up as she approached — and stood.

“Hey,” he said, with a half-smile. “You found it.”

“Wasn’t hard.”

“Glad you came.”

She gave a small nod as she took the seat across from him. He sat down again, a little too fast, like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be doing with his hands. For a second, they both fiddled with their menus like they hadn’t already stalked the place online and picked what they wanted.

She was the first to speak again.

“So… how does this work?”

“We order food. Try not to insult each other. Hope nothing ends in public scandal.”

“Sounds safe.”

“Safe’s a nice change.”

The waiter came. They both ordered the same wine. Smiled at each other awkwardly.

It stayed casual — to start. Light conversation. The race schedule. Summer break. That ridiculous argument in the garage last week over whether the Red Bull hospitality had better cookies than Ferrari’s. (Max, of course, had been insulted anyone even entertained the debate.)

But somewhere after the starters, the silence started filling with more than just leftover conversation.

She played with the edge of her napkin. Max leaned back a little in his chair, watching her.

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually say yes,” he said eventually.

“You waited until my contract ended.”

“Still could’ve said no.”

“I thought about it.”

“And?”

“I figured I’d regret not finding out.”

That quieted him for a second. Not in a heavy way — just thoughtful.

“Same.”

The waiter brought mains. Her fork clinked against the side of her plate. She caught Max watching her again and finally met his gaze straight on.

“This feels weird.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But not bad.”

“No,” she agreed. “Not bad.”

She smiled without meaning to. He smiled back — slower, like he hadn’t let himself fully relax until just now.

They didn’t talk about the past. Not really. Just referenced it in passing. The old versions of themselves. How different everything was now.

He told her about sim days that ran too long. She told him about FIA contract nightmares and how she missed having a coffee machine that didn’t scream.

Somewhere near the end, she reached for the wine bottle just as he did. Their fingers brushed.

They both paused — just briefly. But neither pulled away.

Max didn’t say anything right away. Then—

“I’m not trying to pick up where we left off,” he said. “I just want to see where it goes now. If that’s something you want too.”

She considered that.

Not just the words. The way he said them. No pressure. No games. Just... him.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “Ask me again. After the second date.”

He blinked. Then grinned.

“Fair enough.”

He didn't let her pay her half even after she almost yelled at him.

They left the restaurant slowly. No rush. No awkward ending. Just a walk down a quiet Monaco street, side by side.

He glanced sideways.

“That wasn’t terrible.”

She smirked. “High praise.”

“I meant it.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just kept walking, the pavement smooth beneath her heels, the lights of the marina reflected in the water below.

Then — without thinking, without planning — she reached out.

Just slightly.

Her fingers brushed the back of his hand. He paused.

Looked down.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it hadn’t taken years to get here, he laced their fingers together.

Their hands fit differently now. Bigger, older, steadier. But it still felt the same — that quiet hum of something familiar, something unfinished.

Neither of them looked at the other.

They just kept walking, hand in hand, like maybe this didn’t have to be complicated anymore.

Maybe it could just be.

…

It wasn’t a restaurant this time.

It was a tucked-away bookstore café in Nice — her choice. Max hadn’t even questioned it. He’d just said, “Send me the address,” like it was the most normal thing in the world for him to trade a race sim day for almond croissants and lattes in cracked ceramic cups.

He got there first again.

Y/n spotted him through the window, slouched on a wooden bench in a grey hoodie, scrolling through his phone with a half-drunk coffee beside him. He didn’t look up until she opened the door.

“They have those little cinnamon rolls you like,” he said without a hello. “I told the guy you’d probably want three.”

She laughed — an actual laugh, light and surprised.

“You remember that?”

“You used to steal mine. It’s not hard to remember trauma.”

They sat across from each other near the back, tucked between overstuffed shelves and quiet couples. The playlist was soft jazz and the lighting warm, golden from the morning sun.

She did order three cinnamon rolls.

Max didn’t comment — just slid one onto his plate like he was claiming his tax.

“You always eat like this before you go over contracts?” he asked, halfway through his espresso.

“Only when I didn't sleep that night.”

“Nothing says adrenaline like sugar and mergers.”

“Exactly.”

They talked like that — playful, unhurried. About nothing important. About books they pretended they’d read. About how he still hated planes and how her new apartment had a window that leaked every time it rained.

She teased him for still using wired earbuds. He pointed out that her phone was at 8% with no charger in sight.

“I function on chaos,” she said, licking sugar off her thumb.

“No kidding.”

At one point, she laughed so hard she snorted into her coffee. He just grinned, leaned back in his chair like it was the best thing he’d seen all week.

“You’re different when you’re not trying to win an argument,” he said after a while.

“You’re different when you’re not trying to piss me off.”

“We’re evolving.”

They left hours later. It wasn’t even supposed to be a long date — just coffee, maybe a walk — but the afternoon had crept up on them.

Outside, the sky was soft with clouds, the breeze lifting her hair from her shoulders.

Max shoved his hands in his jacket, but not before she reached for one, he took her hand inside his pocket, warming it.

No hesitation this time.

They walked down the narrow street, hand in hand, fingers warm.

“This felt... easy,” she said.

“It was.”

“That’s new.”

He bumped her shoulder lightly. “Let’s not mess it up.”

“You’re assuming we will.”

“I’m assuming we’re us.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t disagree.

And when they paused at the corner, waiting to cross, he looked at her like he couldn’t quite believe this was real — that they were here, again, but without all the wreckage.

“What?” she asked, catching him.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“Just—” he shrugged. “You’re really here.”

She squeezed his hand.

The sky had deepened by the time they reached her building.

It wasn’t far from the café — a quiet walk through cobblestone streets, shoes tapping gently beneath conversation. The kind of evening that felt suspended in time, where the world went slow, soft around the edges. Every moment hummed with something unspoken but not urgent. They didn’t need to name it.

Max stopped with her at the front steps.

He didn’t let go of her hand until she gave the gentlest tug.

“You taking the train back tonight?” she asked, turning to face him, one foot already on the first step.

“I was gonna call a car.”

“You don’t have to.”

She said it easily. Like it wasn’t loaded. Like it wasn’t the first time she’d said those words in years — and meant something entirely different now.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at her, quiet. Not hesitant. Just making sure.

She held his gaze, keys already in her palm.

“It’s just tea,” she added. “Or water. Or coffee. You don’t have to—”

“Okay.”

He said it before she finished.

“Okay?”

He nodded once. Stepped up beside her. Not rushing. Not pushing.

“Tea sounds good.”

Her apartment was quiet when they stepped in.

Clean, warm, lived-in. Books stacked on the side table. A hoodie draped over the back of the couch. A half-finished legal pad on the counter. The scent of the café still lingered in the air — cinnamon, sugar, and something that was probably her perfume.

Max glanced around like he was seeing the inside of her head. Noticing things without commenting.

“You can sit,” she said, toeing off her shoes. “I’ll make the tea.”

“You still drink that weird herbal stuff?”

“It’s chamomile. Grow up.”

“Sounds fake.”

She tossed a smile over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen.

He didn’t sit. Not right away. Just wandered. Hands in pockets. Taking it in.

She returned a few minutes later with two mismatched mugs — one blue, one plain white.

He took the blue one without asking. Sat beside her on the couch, a comfortable arm’s length away.

They sipped in silence for a while. The streetlight outside threw soft yellow lines across the rug.

“Thanks for today,” he said eventually.

She glanced at him. “It was a good day.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Not heavy. Not awkward.

“You’ve changed,” he added.

“So have you.”

He turned his mug between his palms. “Maybe we had to.”

“Definetly.”

She didn’t say more than that. Didn’t need to.

She curled her feet beneath her, leaned back into the cushion, her mug resting on her knees.

Max looked at her again.

Not like he had something to say.

Just like he didn’t want the moment to end.

And for once — neither did she.

…

a month later

She was here as a guest — Max’s guest.

She hadn’t stepped foot in the paddock without work responsibilities in over six months. It felt strange. Loose. Unanchored.

The Red Bull hospitality still smelled the same: coffee, tire rubber, sharp citrus diffused through the air vents. But she sat differently now — not behind a laptop, not squinting at contract lines.

Just one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand, an untouched espresso in front of her.

She got the call just after noon.

And then she froze.

The voice on the other end was official. Warm. Congratulatory.

"We’d like to offer you the role, effective post-season."

She blinked at the papers in front of her, words suddenly blurring.

“I—sorry, could you say that again?”

They did. Slowly this time.

She nodded, whispered a stunned “yes,” scribbled a shaky signature on the digital acceptance form they sent through minutes later.

The trailer was too quiet after.

For a second, she just sat there, fingers still on the trackpad, chest rising and falling like her lungs had only just caught up. Then—

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

The door opened behind her before she could stand.

“You good?” Max asked, stepping halfway in. “One of the techs said you looked like you saw God or an FIA fine.”

She turned.

Just looked at him.

He paused, sensing it immediately — the energy, the stillness, the shine in her eyes.

“What?” he asked, a little softer.

She lifted the tablet in her hands. Held it up without a word.

He stepped closer to read.

His eyes scanned the message, then flicked up to hers.

“You got it?”

She nodded once. Smiled.

“You’re looking at FIA’s newest regulatory legal officer.”

Max blinked. Then let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“Holy shit.”

“That’s what I said!”

“Wait—you got it.”

“I got it.”

She barely got the last word out before he closed the space between them.

No hesitation this time. No second-guessing.

He cupped her jaw and kissed her — soft, sure, with the kind of care that came from waiting too long and not wanting to ruin it now.

She melted into it.

There wasn’t fire behind it, not like the old days. No anger. No desperation. Just warmth. Familiarity. A kind of knowing.

When they pulled apart, her hands were still holding on to his wrists.

“Took you long enough,” she murmured.

“To kiss you or to congratulate you?”

“Both.”

He smiled — small, crooked, and real.

“You earned this. All of it.”

She looked up at him — the same eyes she used to hate for how well they read her, now soft and proud.

“You’re gonna kill it,” he added. “I’m serious.”

“You planning to follow all FIA rules now just because I’ll be writing half of them?”

“Hell no.”

She laughed.

“Guess I’ll see you in court.”

“Can’t wait.”

@angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress @suibianupyourass @panicattgegrandprix @landosbabe4

Comment to be added! If your name is in white make sure you're allowed to be tagged!

[paingoes]

this idea i’ve had stuck in my head in regard to BBU/institutionalized pet whump is that if they have a legal system where people who have been convicted of crimes are funneled into the pet programs and that if all traces of their old life are erased, i assume their owners would be receiving them without any awareness of who they even were, let alone what crimes they might have committed. and rightfully this element is typically a criticism of the society and the fact that people who have committed petty crimes are sent to be tortured. but it could still facilitate a scenario in which people who have committed actually violent and malicious crimes end up with their memory erased and placed into a home with someone who is totally unaware of their history. imagine the specific dawning horror of realizing that the person they took into their home as a pet has killed before. and what an odd fucking dynamic that would be, especially if there are other people or other pets living in the house with them.

[rivalsispunk]

Professor O'Hara

Professor!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, cursing, age gap romance (unidentified, reader is legal and in university), mention of male appendages, mention of male and female orgasm, pussy pronouns, smut smut SMUTTTT, slight brat tamer Declan, light bondage

Word count: 3.1k

Summary: Your university professor is looking a lil' too good, but he doesn't appreciate you teasing him mid-lesson.

Today, Professor Declan O’Hara’s opted for a more casual look, a little removed from the sports coats and ties he usually wears to teach. No, today it’s brown slacks and boots paired with a Levi’s denim button down that’s splayed open at his collarbone, tufts of dark chest hair creeping up the bare skin there. He always looked good, but his current outfit elicits murmurs of appreciation that rifle through the classroom as he speaks passionately about — God, you don’t even know what. You’re no better than your peers, stuck lustfully on the whole chest hair situation.

“That’s all for today, guys,” Declan eventually announces, and the sound of shuffling of feet and closing of textbooks is almost immediate. Then comes your name leaving your professor’s lips, all drenched in that delicious Irish lilt of his while he stuff his belongings into his briefcase.

“Can you stay behind a few minutes?” he asks flatly. “I just have some feedback for you about your midterm essay.”

You nod curtly at his request, trying not to let a grin escape your rolled lips.

“God, that sounds grim,” one of your classmates whispers as you stand from your seats in the front row. “I’ll meet you in the quad in ten minutes?”

You glance from her to Declan, then back to your friend. “How about I catch up with you later? This might take a while.”

Because what she doesn’t know, what nobody knows, is that your professor has no intention of discussing any coursework with you. You and him are both well aware you’re hardly in need of feedback when it comes to your studies. No, what Declan wanted from you was far more intimate than a discussion about notes in the margin of a page.

The first time you laid eyes on Declan in the flesh was orientation week of your final year of university, when campus was buzzing over the news that a TV star had joined the faculty, the famed journalist and TV host’s name on everybody’s lips. You, for one, were thrilled to see his name on your schedule, Declan — Professor O’Hara — now taking this term’s advanced media ethics lecture. Growing up, you loved watching his BBC program, then followed his career when he made the leap to Corinium. Now that Venturer was an up and running well-oiled machine, Declan decided to take a step back from the network for a term to add teaching to his resume. He felt he ought to try his hand at shaping the next generation of journalists, and as a budding one yourself, having someone so experienced and respected in the industry was just what you needed to give you the leg up in your future career. You’d arrived at the first class exceptionally early, eager to get a front row seat. You’d poured through all of the compulsory readings and stuck it out through the optional chapters too, so you were prepared if Declan called on you. Given the excitement over his arrival, you’d expected at least a few other students to have the same idea as you, but when you swung through the ornate timber door, the lecture hall was empty, cold. Aside from Declan O’Hara, who ignited the room with a lopsided smile at the sight of his first student. It warmed you from head to toe and spread to far more sinister places as you took in his form, so much taller and handsome than you’d anticipated after years of watching him on a grainy television screen.

That smile was the first of many you’d share as the weeks of classes unfolded and though he’d never let it slip, you very soon became his favourite pupil. Switched on, intelligent and mature beyond your years, it was no wonder he’d first thought you were another staff member when you entered his classroom. He’d hoped you didn’t notice his smile falter after you introduced yourself and took a seat in the front row of the tiered seating, solidifying your status as a student. If you were another faculty member, he could get away with flirting. He could go about his lectures without fumbling over his words because you giggled quietly at something your friend had whispered to you, a grin pinching a beautiful flush on your cheeks. 

You were a student. He was a professor. There were rules about that. Rules Declan knew he should uphold. That he tried to uphold. But after weeks of you being so fucking smart (a turn-on for Declan if there ever was one), after you’d signed up for his optional professor-led study groups and blown your peers out of the water, after one session ran particularly late, leaving just you and Declan once the other students ditched for other plans, those rules went completely out the stained glass window of the library room you were sat in. You were all hands and crashing mouths, a tidal wave of tongues and knowing smiles, not unlike the one Declan is giving you now as you wait for the last few students to trickle out of the room.

“Get on the desk,” he says as soon as the door creaks shut with a heavy thud.

“What?” You’re taken aback at his demand, eyes darting wildly between him, the desk and the door. “Right here? Anyone could walk in.” At least when you hooked up in his office, the room could be locked.

“Yes, right here,” he confirms flatly. He rounds the desk…. Stalks towards you, forcing you backwards until the backs of your thighs hit the cool timber. “You don’t get the privilege of privacy when you’ve been sat there taunting me with your bare pussy.” He cups you roughly under your mini skirt and you gasp at the sudden contact.

You’d purposely gone without underwear today, knowing full well that from his spot at the front of the hall, Declan would have the perfect view. However, you didn’t think he’d noticed. He’d remained his usual poised and charming self the whole hour, eyes occasionally meeting yours for a fleeting second, no differently to any other student.

Oh, but he’d noticed. As soon as he launched into his introduction into the intersection of culture in media, you’d spread your knees just so, holding in a moan as the cool air hit your core. Declan’s cock jumped to life behind his slacks but he kept on with his train of thought, although the remainder of the class came from behind the cover of his desk.

“You think it’s cute to tease me like that when you know I can’t do anything about it?” he growls down at you, hand unwavering despite the pool of arousal forming between you. You cant into his hand, desperate for friction against your bundle of nerves. You knew your little act of rebellion would infuriate him, get him riled up to the point he’d be unforgiving with you. Still, you feign dumb, peering up at him through your thick eyelashes.

“Hmm? Do you?”

“No,” you say quietly, writhing to no reprieve.

“No, what?”

“No, Declan.”

“Uh-uh,” he tuts, already dark eyes almost black. “No, what?”

“No professor,” you relent, the title he loves so much falling out amid a sigh.

Declan’s moustache quirks, satisfied. “Good girl.” Then he sinks his thick middle finger into you, right to the knuckle, immediately probing your G-spot. He repeats the movement over and over, drawing barely-there whimpers from you. Once he’s warmed you up, he slips an additional finger in and his thumb latches onto your clit, rubbing circles in tandem with every pump of his wrist. 

“Oh, God,” you whisper, legs seconds away from buckling as Declan speeds up. His lips come to brush your own, gently, and you keen into his touch, needing a taste of him. But just as quickly as he leaned in, he’s rearing back. As he does, he withdraws his fingers from you, taking a pathetic whine with it. 

You’d slap the smug grin off his face if it wasn’t so goddamn sexy. 

“Teasing’s not so fun when you’re on the receiving end of it, is it, darlin’?”

Takes fingers into his mouth, eyes locked on yours, drags them out at what should be an illegally slow pace with a pop. The act is so simple yet so inherently sexual, you watch him in such awe, as if he’s just defied gravity right in front of you.

“So sweet, f’me,” he whispers, then jerks his chin at you. “On the desk. I’m not asking this time.”

You do as he says, hoisting yourself up so you’re teetering on the edge, ignoring the scuffling of shoes and chatter buzzing in the hallway. Declan fills the space between your thighs, his hips nudging them even more widespread as he brings his mouth to yours. His moustache grazes like steel wool on your upper lip, his tongue fighting for purchase against your own, the taste of yourself mingling with the hazy aftermath of the cigarette Declan huffed down before class. His hands have a tight grip on either side of your faces until one comes to fist your hair at the back of your neck, scalp tingling as he snaps your head back to lick a stripe up your throat. You’re writhing on the desk now, needing Declan to fucking touch you down there while he sucks a kiss into your pulse. 

“Are you gonna behave now and stop being a prick tease?” he wants to know

“Depends,” you counter. “Are you going to stop being a prick and let me come?”

Cheeky fucking girl, Declan thinks and, as if he couldn’t get any harder, his dick strains against his trousers, battling his zipper. “I’ll take that as a no then.”

Dropping to his knees, he pays no mind to the pain that shoots up his back when his joints hit the hardwood floors. His hands grip your knees, pushing them apart as far as they’ll go as he begins the assault on your cunt. You can’t keep up as he alternates between nibbling and sucking your clit like he’s been starved for weeks and you're the only thing to cure his famine. Your hands are pitched against the desktop behind you, steadying yourself while you lean backwards so Declan has full access as he relentlessly laps you up.

“Declan,” you pant, still jerking your hips to meet his mouth. “So good.”

He smiles against your pussy, his tongue flicking your clit harder, faster, as two of his thick fingers press back into your hole.

“Oh, fuck.” The combination of tongue and fingers pushes you closer to the edge, pins and needles rippling through your toes. “Declan… Gonna come,” you seethe through ragged breaths, eyes closing at the pleasure mounting deep in your stomach. You’re nearly there, on the brink of your orgasm wracking through you and—

Nothing.

Your climax recedes, your cunt immediately missing Declan’s warm mouth when he pulls back and cool air stings your moist centre. Again, you whine, this time at being denied the ecstasy that was right there. Your eyes flutter open and you glare at him, brows drawn together, silently asking what the fuck? Declan leers back up you, moustache glistening with your slick.

“I asked if you were going to behave.”

“Declan—professor—I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I’ll—” “Too late for that, love. You’ll come when I tell you to come, and not a second before,” he tells you, voice gravelly as he stands, his tall frame casting a shadow over you. “Got it?”

You nod incessantly, head bobbing so quickly you’re surprised it doesn’t fall off. Whatever, anything, as long as he just keeps touching you.

“Alright, then. Stand up. Face the blackboard.”

Scrambling, you follow his instructions, staring at his notes from class scrawled in chalky handwriting. You’re already wobbly on your feet, both from the orgasm stolen away from you and your nerves, as you remember the fact that anybody could walk in at any given moment. If you got caught, you’d get expelled. Declan would be fired. Not to mention he’s married. But right now, you can’t find it in you to care, not when the jingle of his belt buckle echoes through the empty classroom and he yanks your hands together at the base of your spine. Soft leather wraps around your wrists, and you gasp, pussy clenching, then hiss when Declan pulls the belt so tight it wears against your bones.

“Be good,” he snips from behind you, quietly, his hands coming to rake your hair over your shoulder before his fingers start trailing feather-light lines down the back of your black, skin-tight sweater. The gesture is intimate, soft. Relaxing if not for your heart galloping in your chest, shattering against your ribs. He roams to the front of your body, bearish hands pawing at your tits as he ruts his steely cock against your arse cheeks. “Been absolutely aching for you all mornin’,” Declan whispers against the shell of your ear while he kneads your chest. “Seeing you so wet f’me… Couldn’t get that class over with fast enough.” As soon as the words come to a halt, a hand goes to the base of your neck and snaps you forward so you’re bent in half, right cheek flush against Declan’s desk. The eye closest to the timber waters, squashed half-closed in the position as you stare at the ginormous door that taunts you while your professor yanks your green skirt over your arse, brandishing it with a slap that wracks your entire body. “Little fucking brat.”

The slaps stings your skin but feels so fucking good at the same time, your arousal sticking the apex of your thighs together. Declan doesn’t sooth the pain with a soft hand or a kiss where a raised, red handprint is undoubtedly forming, just unzips his slacks, the generally mundane sound deafening as you await the inevitable.

Declan watches your body rise and fall with heaving breaths, his cock, sprung free of his boxers, a hardened red rod aimed directly for your weeping cunt. The pre-cum that’s formed at his top glistens under the hall’s fluorescent lighting, and he uses his palm to spread it down his length, pumping languidly, once, twice, before lining himself up at your hole. You drag your teeth over your bottom lip, feeling him just inches away from where you need him most. He’s stalling, if only for his own gratification. You can practically feel him grinning when you groan, your bound hands pulsing helplessly in the air as you try to reach for him.

“What do you need, love?” Declan asks.

“Need you. Need you to fuck me,” you plead, wiggling your legs apart. “Professor, please.” It’s the please that does it for him, your begging single handedly burying Declan’s cock inside you to the hilt. You’re immediately full and fluttering around him, and he wastes no time in dragging himself in and out of your cunt at an unforgiving pace, his hands creating bruises at your hips while he snaps his own against your arse.

“Fucking missed this. Missed your tight pussy. Made just f’me,” Declan grunts, every word punctuated by each pump of his cock. You moan, completely pathetic and pliable for the older man hunched above you. Your eyes loll closed while your body slides against the desk with Declan’s rigorous movement. One of his hands comes to your cheek, sprawling flat palm pushing your head against the treated wood, completely deafening you on one side while your other ear is assaulted with grunts and expletives. “Good girl, fucking take it from your professor. You like that, huh?”

You nod, as much as you can under the weight of his hand, your moans a jumble of yes and please and don’t fucking stop I’m gonna come.

Declan’s close too, already tiring of the pedantic pace he’s set, and every single one of your whines threatens to tip him over the edge.

“You ready to come, darlin’?” he asks, though he knows you’ve been waiting and ready since you chose to go sans underwear this morning. Since you decided to tease him. “Go on, let me hear it.”

His permission is all you need to let go, a pathetic squeal wrapped in a fuuuuck tumbling from your lips as you spasm beneath Declan, sweat pooling between your tits, his fingernails digging crescents into the flesh of your hips. Not five seconds later, barbaric grunts sound above you as Declan shoots ropes of hot come inside you, your orgasm milking him of his own. The hand that had you pinned down comes to stroke your hair as your shuddering slows down, Declan sighing as his last drop seeps out of his swollen head. 

“Jesus Christ,” he says, mourning the feeling of your warm cunt as he slips out. He gently slides your skirt back over your arse and undoes his belt from your wrists, quietly slipping it back through the loops around the waistband of his trousers. You remain facedown on the desk, waiting for instruction while your heart thrums down to a regular rate. Declan finds your forearms, gently lifting you to stand and face him. You both look completely fucked out, your mascara smudged one eye, sweat beading in the chest hair visible under his shirt, moisture seeping in the material where its covered.

Declan rakes his left hand over his face, wedding band glinting in the light when he drops his arm to remove a lazy smile. “You’re gonna be the death of me, y’know that?”

You shrug, trying to remain nonchalant despite the pride swelling in your chest at the backwards compliment. As you lean down to grab your bag from where you’d discarded it on the floor, you feel Declan begin to leak out of you. You shudder, partly from the aftershock of your climax, partly because of the fact you’ve been in here so long you’re going to have to go to your next class full of your professor’s come. Not to mention the whole no underwear situation.

“You got literature next?” Declan asks, as if he can read your mind. The comment’s casual, too, like he didn’t just fuck your brains out in the middle of a lecture hall.

“Yeah,” you respond, slipping your bag onto your shoulder. “Next building over.”

Declan nods, sly smile sliding onto his face. “Good. My office hours begin after that.”

“I know.” You’ve been making good use of those office hours for quite some time.

“Make sure you come by,” he tells you. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Masterlist

[balu88r-blog]

Child Labour : ಬಾಲಕಾರ್ಮಿಕ ಪದ್ಧತಿ ನಿರ್ಮೂಲನೆ ಮಾಡುವುದು ಪ್ರತಿಯೊಬ್ಬರ ಕರ್ತವ್ಯ ನ್ಯಾ. ಸವಿತಾ ರುದ್ರಗೌಡ ಚಿಕ್ಕನಗೌಡರ್

Child Labour – ಮಕ್ಕಳ ಭವಿಷ್ಯದ ಹಾದಿ ಶಿಕ್ಷಣದಿಂದ ಮಾತ್ರ ಸುಗಮವಾಗುತ್ತದೆ. ಬಾಲಕಾರ್ಮಿಕ ಪದ್ಧತಿ ಎಂಬ ಪಿಡುಗು ನಮ್ಮ ಸಮಾಜದಿಂದ ಸಂಪೂರ್ಣವಾಗಿ ನಿರ್ಮೂಲನೆ ಆಗಬೇಕು. ಇದಕ್ಕಾಗಿ ಪೋಷಕರು, ಅಧಿಕಾರಿಗಳು ಮತ್ತು ಸಾರ್ವಜನಿಕರು ಒಟ್ಟಾಗಿ ಕೈಜೋಡಿಸಬೇಕು ಎಂದು ಗುಡಿಬಂಡೆ ಜೆಎಂಎಫ್‌ಸಿ ನ್ಯಾಯಾಧೀಶರಾದ ಸವಿತಾ ರುದ್ರಗೌಡ ಚಿಕ್ಕನಗೌಡರ್ ಅವರು ಕರೆ ನೀಡಿದ್ದಾರೆ. ಚಿಕ್ಕಬಳ್ಳಾಪುರದ ಗುಡಿಬಂಡೆ ಪಟ್ಟಣದ ಸರ್ಕಾರಿ ಬಾಲಕಿಯರ ಪ್ರೌಢಶಾಲೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ತಾಲ್ಲೂಕು ಕಾನೂನು ಸೇವಾ ಸಮಿತಿ, ವಕೀಲರ ಸಂಘ,…

[townpostin]

YUVA Organizes Exposure Visit for Rural Women in Jamshedpur

Rural women learn about DLSA’s initiatives in legal aid. Jamshedpur: Under the Comic Relief program run by the social organization Youth Unity for Voluntary Action (YUVA), young girls and women from Potka block visited the District Legal Services Authority (DLSA) office to learn about legal aid processes. JAMSHEDPUR – The social organization Youth Unity for Voluntary Action (YUVA) organized an…

[kolutshanpress]

as per a request in my local renegade server: here is my process (such as it is) for the stenciled covers i've done for my binds. obviously, huge thanks to everyone in the renegade discord for teaching me most of what i know about bookbinding. this tutorial only exists thanks to the resources they've made available and the conversations i've had there.

material list

vinyl cutter (i have a silhouette portrait 3) + mat + blade

stencil vinyl (i have this one, but have had some adherence troubles with it. unclear whether this is just The Nature Of Stencil Vinyl or whether there's a better brand out there. adhesive vinyl can also be a viable option, although i haven't personally experimented with it yet.)

transfer tape (i have this stuff. it's fine.)

weeding tools (i have this hook and a very fine tip pair of tweezers. i highly recommend getting a hook, especially if you—like me—are haunted by the specter of carpal tunnel. get an off-brand one or get one on sale, though. i only have the silhouette brand one because it was on clearance.)

acrylic medium (i have this one because it was on sale at the time i was buying acrylic medium. when i replace it, i will be replacing it with a matte one. the gloss definitely has a noticeable sheen that i don't love.)

acrylic paint (literally any paint will do. i've been mostly using the decoart extreme sheen because it's $4 at michaels. you may be noticing a theme here.)

stiff stenciling brushes (the ones i have are similar to these but cost even less. again, there's a theme here.)

an iron and some parchment paper (jury is still out on whether using heat to "set" the pattern is necessary, but i do feel like it melts the paint a bit into the bookcloth and lessens the extent to which the pattern sits above the bookcloth.)

your trusty bone folder

instructions and a truly hideous number of words under the cut.

step 0.5: discern what will make a good stencil and what will make you hate yourself, your life, and the art of bookbinding

there are a LOT of different ways to put titling on a book. you could do a paper cover with a printed design or paste paper labels onto bookcloth or foil your title onto your cover with heat activated foil. the best method depends on what kind of design you have in mind, what tools you have available to you, and what materials you're working with (for example, i've had very bad luck getting acrylic paint to adhere to Allure bookcloth, but Allure does foil like a dream).

as far as stencils are concerned, you can kind of sort cover designs into three categories:

BEST for stencils: big, bold shapes on larger format books (think letter folio or letter/legal quarto)

OKAY for stencils, but you might hate yourself: intricate detail at a large enough form factor for it to be cut well by your vinyl cutter

BAD for stencils, you will die and it will hurt the entire time you are dying: lots of intricate detail and lots of fine lines

below are examples of category 1, 2, and 3 (all designed for letter folio). to be clear, category 3 can technically be possible, depending on the design. but only undertake it with the awareness that you will die, and it will hurt the entire time you are dying.

step 1: design a thing to put on your cover

i'm not going to go too in depth on this because cover design is a HUGE can of worms. a few pointers, though:

i never start designing my cover until my text block is done. this allows me to design my cover at "full size" based on the measured size of my text block and cover boards.

i fully lay out my cover in a separate program before exporting a transparent PNG to silhouette studio (or whichever proprietary software you have to use to communicate with your particular vinyl cutter). i use affinity designer. some free options would be inkscape (if you want to work with vectors) or gimp.

i design my cover on a document with dimensions of (HEIGHT of boards + 20 mm) x (WIDTH of boards or spine + 20 mm) and 10 mm margins. the area within the margins represents the actual dimensions of the thing i'm designing, while the area outside of the margins creates a mask that prevents me from getting paint on things i don't want paint on (like the covers, if i'm creating a spine stencil).

i always outline my document with a 3 or 4pt black line. this creates the outer edge of my stencil and provides my vinyl cutter with a cut line. if you're working with a smaller vinyl cutter (like the cricut joy) there are ways to jigsaw designs together from smaller pieces of vinyl, but i'm not the person to ask about that. i specifically bought a portrait so that i didn't have to worry about that.

here's an example of one of my affinity files from a recent cover. i've exaggerated my outline to make it clearer. you can also see that i use affinity to experiment with color combinations. before i export, i turn all my elements black and make any backgrounds transparent, meaning that the PNG i import into silhouette studio looks like the one on the right.

step 2: cut and weed your stencil

again, not going to go terribly in depth here. there is a veritable army of youtubers out there with tutorials about how to use [insert propriety vinyl cutter software here]. but, again, a few pointers:

with my particular vinyl cutter and stencil vinyl, i usually cut my stencils with the material set to "washi," depth at 1, force at 13, and speed at 4. google, experiment, see what works. also, you want to put your stencil vinyl on the mat with the blue vinyl facing UP, and you don't want to mirror your design. with stencils, what you see is what you get.

i cut my vinyl a bit bigger than necessary because i'd rather waste a bit of vinyl than have to worry about a stencil falling off the edge of my vinyl because i misaligned it on the mat.

unlike HTV, you will be weeding out all the black parts of your original image. be prepared to hate the letters "e" and "a" forever, because you will have to somehow keep the little eye of them in place while you pry out the rest of it.

step 3: apply your stencil to your case

alright, now let's get into the meat of it. i always stencil after my case is finished but before i case in my book. this means that if i totally fuck it up, i can trash the case instead of the entire book.

additionally, i completely stencil my spine first (as in lay down stencil, paint, remove stencil) and then stencil my covers. i've found that it's easier when you don't have stencils overlapping and sticking to each other.

OPTIONAL STEP: mark guides onto your cover to help you position your stencil. whether or not i do this step depends on the design. a lot of the time, i just eyeball it. but for some designs, precision is key. for those projects, i use my ruler to mark out guides in white chalk for where i need certain elements of the stencil to fall. (i used guide marks for the "penguin clothbound" copies of the The Weight Collected that i've been using as an example in this post—the black rectangular boarder would've made uneven placement REALLY obvious.)

use transfer tape to remove your vinyl from its slick backing. what i've found is that you really, really don't want your transfer tape to be too sticky. you want it just barely sticky enough to pick up the stencil if you rub it down with a bone folder or your fingernail. i have a piece of transfer tape that i stuck to my jeans a bunch of times and then proceeded to use for 8 books in a row. it is, frankly, still a little bit too sticky. i have rolled it up so that i can use it for the next 8 books, at which point it will presumably be the right level of stickiness.

position your stencil. when you're happy with it, rub it firmly down with your bone folder. then do it again. then use your fingernail to score down over the titling text. then pray. in my experience, stencils prefer to stick to transfer tape rather than bookcloth. ymmv.

start at one corner of your stencil. carefully begin peeling back the transfer tape. i've found that essentially folding back the transfer tape (like, the corner that's been freed from the stencil being folded back away from the stencil) helps the tape to release. go slowly, rubbing down with the bone fold as necessary.

after you've finally manage to pry the tape off, go back and smooth down the stencil and firmly rub it down to get it to adhere to the bookcloth as thoroughly as possible with as few ripples or air bubbles as possible.

step 4: paint time!

here is a secret that the renegade discord taught me that i am now passing on to all of you: before you put any paint on your stencil, put down a layer of clear acrylic medium. the medium will finish the job of pasting down the stencil to your cover, and any leaks that happen in the process will be clear medium instead of colored paint (and will therefore be basically unnoticeable). ergo:

stipple a thin coat of acrylic medium over your stencil. you want to use an up-and-down daubing motion, not a brushing motion. brushing will get paint under your stencil. let dry.

after your medium is dry, stipple a few thin coats of your colored acrylic paint onto your stencil. let dry between coats. (i usually find that two coats is enough.) again, try to keep your coats thin. you don't want a thick layer of paint because that will create a raised surface above your bookcloth.

let your paint fully dry. i usually leave it overnight, but if i'm feeling especially impatient, i still make sure to at least give it a good three or four hours.

peel up your stencil. your weeding tools will once again come into play here to pry up little bits and pieces of stencil (like the stupid eyes of the "a"s and "e"s that were so annoying during the initial weeding stage).

step 5: optional setting stage

again, jury is still out on whether or not this is necessary, and the effects are pretty subtle. but i do it every time anyway. some tips:

use an iron on very low heat (i keep mine at the low end of the synthetic setting) and with steam turned OFF

keep a piece of parchment paper (NOT waxed paper. you want the slick paper that you put under cookies to keep them from sticking to the pan.) between the iron and your cover.

press the iron down, don't rub it like you're ironing a shirt. it's possible to smear your paint doing that (ask me how i know).

i usually lay the iron down on a section for 10-15 seconds at a time, then lift it and move it to another section.

start with less of everything (less heat, less time) and build up. always better to be conservative with this.

i usually continue until the paint is warm to the touch, then move onto another section. after it's cooled, i evaluate if i feel like it's melted into the cloth enough. if not, i repeat the process.

step 6: BOOK

congrats, you have put a design on a book cover. the world is your oyster. go forth and make books. become ungovernable.

[sirpuntine]

Are you aware of ALLIGATOR ALCATRAZ?

"This site is a multigenerational home for the Indigenous peoples of Florida, and it is not the home of a harmful and unnecessary prison." - Friends of the Everglades

Source

“Alligator Alcatraz” is an immigrant detention center being built illegally in the Big Cypress Preserve of the Florida Everglades to house 5,000 people in tents in summer, with plans to use alligators and snakes as opposed to walls and buildings as a deterrent to the people being kidnapped, trafficked, and contained.

“State authorities project that the center will be operational at the beginning of July, with an initial capacity of at least 1,000 detainees and a gradual expansion thereafter”

As of 6/26: Construction has already started and has been connected to LOGISTIC EVENT CORPS and US TENT RENTAL. FL National Guard and Highway Patrol have been sent to “secure the perimeter and entry points of Alligator Alcatraz”. Homeland Security is largely funding it with FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency) using its Shelter and Service Program, which usually allocates money to governments and nonprofits to “provide migrants with temporary shelter, food and transportation”.

There are 15 Miccosukee and Seminole villages in Big Cypress, which also supplies 40% of their drinking water, but the tribes WERE NOT CONSULTED and EXPLICITLY OPPOSE construction.

The Mayor of Miami is opposing construction until environmental impact assessments are done and is reportedly considering legal action

“Levine Cava also reported that the state of Florida offered only 20 million dollars for the property, while its most recent appraisal exceeds 190 million”

DeSantis has claimed the project has zero environmental impacts, which has been vehemently denied by environmentalists:

"There will be impact because sewage will be generated, water will be used, and it will create light pollution affecting the habitat” - Eve Samples, Executive Director of Friends of the Everglades

“She also contends the state failed to follow proper procedure by skipping a required environmental review before building a federal facility. Samples raised additional alarm over the threat to endangered species, noting that Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission (FWC) maps show panthers living in the area.”

“In addition to the criticisms of the immigration plan itself, construction in this region -considered ecologically sensitive- could cause irreversible damage to the ecosystem of the Everglades, one of the most important natural reserves in the United States.” [x]

In 1969, Marjory Stoneman Douglas founded Friends of the Everglades to stop construction in the same location based on the findings of the 1st ever environmental impact study done in FL and was successful

"Development of the proposed jetport and its attendant facilities will lead to land drainage and development for agriculture, transportation, and services in the Big Cypress Swamp which will inexorably destroy the south Florida ecosystem and thus the Everglades National Park."

US President Ford established Big Cypress National Preserve in 1974 In order to “assure the preservation, conservation, and protection of the natural, scenic, hydrologic, floral and faunal, and recreational values of the Big Cypress Watershed”

Call Scripts:

Use these exactly, or use pieces, or base your own message on them - as long as you contact ASAP

Friends of the Everglades: “Dear Gov. DeSantis and Attorney General Uthmeier, Don’t make the same mistake Florida avoided 55 years ago. I’m urging you to STOP the reckless plan to build an “Alligator Alcatraz” detention center in the heart of the Everglades. This land is critical to the future of the Everglades — that’s why thousands of Floridians joined forces to stop the Everglades Jetport from paving over this very ground in 1970. Now Attorney General Uthmeier wants to do what even President Nixon’s administration knew was wrong: open the door to development in one of America’s most fragile and iconic ecosystems, surrounded by Everglades National Park and Big Cypress National Preserve. You have the power to stop this anti-Everglades proposal, and I’m calling on you to use it. NO AIRPORTS. NO ROCK MINES. NO PRISONS on this land. ONLY EVERGLADES! Sincerely, [your info here]”

Jessica Namath: “My name is (name] and I'm calling to ask that you help protect our nation's FIRST National Preserve - Big Cypress - and stop "Alligator Alcatraz". The Everglades are no place for ANY 1,000 person facility. The infrastructure can't support it, and the impacts to the indigenous community and ecosystem would be catastrophic. Please oppose this terrible idea!”

Sierra Club FL Chapter: “Dear Governor DeSantis - You have repeatedly claimed to be a defender of the Everglades. Now is the moment to back up those words with action. The proposed “Alligator Alcatraz” ICE facility would devastate a vital part of the Everglades — undoing decades of restoration progress and wasting billions of taxpayer dollars already invested in protecting this unique ecosystem. This project threatens to destroy the very heart of the River of Grass, undermining the hard work of generations of advocates and scientists dedicated to restoring Florida’s natural heritage. I urge you to listen to the thousands of Floridians who stand against this plan. Show real leadership by rejecting this harmful project and fully committing to protecting and restoring the Everglades for future generations. The time to act is now. Stop Alligator Alcatraz, and stand by your promise to protect the Everglades. Sincerely, [your info here]”

Friends of the Everglades provide this to contact DeSantis and Uthmeier. You can also email DeSantis through his website, or use the contact info below:

DeSantis Mailing Address: The Capitol / 400 South Monroe St. / Tallahassee, FL 32399-0001 | DeSantis Phone: (850)717-9337 or (850)488-7146

Uthmeier Mailing Address: Office of the Attorney General / State of Florida /!PL-01, The Capitol / Tallahassee, FL 32399-1050 | Uthmeier Phone: (866)966-7226

Call the companies involved and confront their complicity, demanding they stop their service

US Tent Rental (Sarasota, FL): (941)727-3311

Logistics Event Corps (SweetWater, FL): (305)232-8368

BTW DeSantis has already said he wants to build another detention center at Camp Blanding, 30 miles West of Jacksonville, in Northeast FL

[strawberryblondebutch]

Please share: Philly music venue targeting its workers

As I hope many of my followers are aware by now, I am very active in Philadelphia's music scene, which means that I have been going to World Cafe Live for nearly a decade. Their Free at Noon shows have introduced me to all kinds of artists and have fostered a community in West Philly.

Last month, a man named Joseph Callahan was named CEO and Chairman of the venue. Mr. Callahan is a venture capitalist who has publicly stated his intention to integrate the metaverse into World Cafe Live's programming. He claims that the metaverse is "a natural progression" for the venue.

Last week, several employees walked off the job to protest "an unacceptable level of hostility and mismanagement" from Mr. Callahan and the venue's new ownership. Mr. Callahan responded by firing the striking employees, banning them from the premises, and beginning the process of criminal charges.

I cannot support World Cafe Live under Mr. Callahan's ownership, and neither should you. Even if you are not in the Philadelphia area, you can help!

The striking workers have started a GoFundMe. Donations will help keep them afloat and should help with legal fees should Mr. Callahan press charges as he has stated.

The striking workers encourage patrons to reach out to WCL's ownership directly. You can do so here.

Finally, please reach out to musicians who are scheduled to perform at World Cafe Live and inform them about what is happening. Several artists have already canceled their shows or found new venues. This morning I contacted SG Goodman's booking agent directly and hope that he will find a new venue, given the artist's support of unions and fair labor.

World Cafe Live is a small venue, and the artists who perform there are more accessible than your stadium performers. The more pressure put on the venue, the more likely it is that Mr. Callahan will be removed, or will recant the actions he has taken.

This venue and the people in it mean so much to me. I even worked with WXPN (who do not own the venue but have been partnered with it for decades) several years ago. I do not want to see this happen. Even if you aren't from Philly, please donate where you can and petition artists. And if you ARE local, follow saveworldcafelive on Instagram to keep up with protests and other calls to action.

PLEASE REBLOG!!!

[ckret2]

Is current day Bill aware that he was technically dead? Does anyone else know?

"Welcome to the mindscape, kid! Without a vessel to possess, you're basically a ghost!"

He knows what he is.

He knows he's a being made of pure energy (with no weaknesses!!) only visible in the mindscape and he knows he doesn't have a physical form despite previously having one. He's willing and able to get in a long philosophical argument with you about whether or not that makes him "dead."

The Axolotl's a psychopomp. The Axolotl's definition of "dead" is "legally, a ghost," because as a psychopomp it's his responsibility to escort ghosts to afterlives (like the Theraprism). The Axolotl's legal definition of ghost is "is a soul (a sentient entity composed entirely of energy with no physical matter); was not always a soul (was born inhabiting a physical body); is from a dimension where the mindscape and the landscape are on separate planes, and physical beings live in the landscape while energy beings live in the mindscape; and is from a dimension where the local culture/god(s) want the deceased to 'move on' rather than cohabitate with the living, and have set up afterlives and/or reincarnation programs to facilitate this."

So from that perspective, death can be subjective. If you have, say, a species of caterpillar with a physical body that enters a cocoon and emerges as a butterfly made of pure energy, whether the Axolotl defines them as "a species that metamorphoses from physical beings into energy beings" or "a species that enters a cocoon when it's time for them to die" depends on how they treat their energy-butterfly forms: do they consider their energy-butterfly forms "adulthood," or do they go "welp! Bob's cocoon cracked, he's gone forever now. (Bob, I swear, stop beating your wings at me, you're supposed to fly on up to The Next Place In The Sky)"? If the same caterpillar species has two different cultures that consider their butterfly forms differently, the Axolotl wouldn't know whether to consider an energy butterfly dead until he'd found out which culture it came from.

Bill isn't a psychopomp and he hates laws. What does he care about bodies? He determines whether or not he's dead via "am I still living?" Is he still doing stuff? Going to parties? Making plans, talking to people, pursuing his ambitions, running from cops, affecting interdimensional politics? Thinking, feeling, acting, eating, touching, living? Then he's alive.

(He feels more dead visiting Earth to manipulate humans than he does in the Nightmare Realm; because in the Nightmare Realm, physical beings and energy beings interact on the same plane, so he can do all the same stuff anyone with a physical body can. But if he can open a rift from the Nightmare Realm to Earth, then he can make a physical body on Earth and it won't be a problem anymore!!)

He's far more powerful now than he was before the Euclidean Massacre when he became an energy being; shouldn't that mean he's more alive now? ALSO, even if he DID die, then he "died" like BILLIONS AND BILLIONS of years ago, and he thinks he should be considered alive just for still being around now! Would anybody dead still be around so long after they died?! If Bill had been born an energy being, rather than becoming one later in life, nobody would accuse him of being dead—and that to him is proof enough that the whole system is bogus!

Bill and the Axolotl have been arguing about this for literally a trillion years.

[scariusaquarius]

rehab. 35.

Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader

Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.

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A/n: did y'all like that last little part of the previous chapter? heheheh it's beginning. this is a very short and sweet chapter for some comedic relief from the heaviness of the last few chapters, but still contains a bit of important development. <3 Also, if you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee! If you would prefer to read Rehab on Archive, you may do so right HERE!

This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!

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Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares

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Author: ScariusAquarius

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rehab masterlist. / rehab masterlist 2. chapter 34

When the Avengers returned to Wakanda again, everyone was in a state of bittersweet triumph. The case had been won, the world was aware, and now it was a battle of public scrutiny.

Tony and Steve were walking side by side, both of them quiet and shoulders tensed. Neither of them had said a single word since embarking on the journey back to Wakanda, too angry and distraught by the trial to formulate proper thought.

Clint had managed to calm Wanda down, but due to the amount of people that had been thinking so strongly in the room, Wanda had become nauseous and had gotten a massive migraine. Maria had stayed behind in the US to deal with anymore legal fallout, and Natasha had been stone-faced the whole way; playing with a knife as she spaced out.

Shuri had been the only one out of the group to keep her head held high, ready and determined to begin rooting out the rest of HYDRA. When the aircraft had landed back in Wakanda, Shuri and the Avengers wasted no time in getting to Shuri's lab to begin planning.

However, as the group made it into Shuri's lab, they were surprised to see Sam and Bucky both sitting with (Y/n) as they watched a TV show.

Steve didn't know what it was, his eyes squinting, but Natasha smirked as she recognized the show. Currently, Bucky and Sam seemed to be in a semi-heated debate, Bucky gesturing to the TV with a large frown.

"Oh, come on! Salt rounds wouldn't work like that."

Bucky shook his head, adding with a frown as he watched Dean Winchester blow a door straight off of the hinges with his sawed-off shotgun.

"He would have dislocated his shoulder unless he was enhanced."

Sam gave Bucky an exasperated look, gesturing to the screen as well.

"Dude, it's fiction. You're not supposed to be critiquing and fact-checking the demon hunters."

Bucky pressed more, looking as though he was genuinely stressed out.

"Listen, you go clearing a room like that, and you're asking for trouble."

(Y/n), who had been sitting quietly and observing with a curious and calculating look, said quietly with a serious tone to her voice.

"No perimeter established. Tactics are flawed. The target could have slipped out through the window. It was open the whole time."

Sam gave (Y/n) a raised eyebrow as he crossed his arms.

"Oh, you're gonna critique a fictional show too?"

(Y/n) gave Sam a serious look, tilting her head a bit as Bucky smirked triumphantly at Sam from over her shoulder.

"It was sloppy. With no perimeter established and poor tactic execution, there will never be success in the mission. They must do better."

Sam grumbled to himself, and Natasha smirked at Steve as the man gave the woman a look of surprise.

"Looks like she's learning how to relax one Winchester takedown at a time."

Steve's lips twitched slightly, the amusement steady but half-hearted. He watched as Natasha plopped down beside (Y/n), asking her as Natasha glanced at the screen.

"What are you nerds watching, (Y/n)?"

(Y/n) glanced at Bucky and Sam for a moment, almost unsure, before looking back at Natasha with a shy look on her face.

"it is Supernatural...about two brothers that hunt monsters and...save people. It is sloppy."

Natasha smirked widely, amused by the seriousness in (Y/n)'s voice, and Steve sat down next to Bucky, who looked at the man with a silent but knowing look. Steve didn't have to say anything, Bucky nodding to him quietly.

I've got you back.

I know you do.

Tony groaned as he let his head fall back and rolled his eyes.

"Seriously? This is what you settled on? Have a little dignity, would you?"

Shuri just sighed, shaking her head as she quietly watched from the back. From just the small amount of time that the team had been gone, it seemed that Bucky and Sam had been able to jump forward in progress with (Y/n). While the woman still seemed to be shy, it was apparent that she was slowly opening up.

While using a show wasn't the most conventual way to make (Y/n) comfortable, Shuri had to admit that the fact (Y/n) was adding critique so freely was a good sign. Quietly, as the show continued and the group kept watching, Shuri began to work in her corner of the lab.

Sam began to try to explain the plot of Supernatural to Tony, but Tony didn't seem to be interested; already set with his opinion that the show was horrible. Natasha and (Y/n) stayed quiet as they continued to watch, and Steve raised his brow at the show with a skeptic look on his face.

"So...a TV show, huh?"

Bucky stated with a half-hearted annoyed look on his face.

"It wasn't my idea. Sam thought it'd be good to introduce (Y/n) to the latest pop culture, and she seems to enjoying it."

Steve joked quietly although the exhaustion and distraught demeanor was apparent.

"More like critiquing."

"She's making good points."

Bucky shrugged, and then the man became quiet again. Quietly, he spoke to Steve, saying as Sam began to bicker with Tony in the background much louder.

"Dr. Raynor called. Said she saw the whole trial and she wants to pick up (Y/n)'s case. She's gonna get in touch with you and Tony soon."

Steve looked surprised before he turned back to the screen and watched with a wince as the scene became a bit grotesque from the gore.

"I imagine that you're not very happy about it."

Bucky was quiet for a moment, glancing over at (Y/n) subtly, and he was almost surprised to see (Y/n) eyeing him quietly as well. Her gaze, however, was simply neutral; just listening before becoming distracted by Natasha beginning to critique and ask (Y/n) her opinions on the combat techniques. Bucky glanced at Steve, murmuring quietly.

"As much as I hate the idea of Raynor trying to help, she did make some pretty good points. Unless (Y/n) is receiving professional help with her rehabilitation, she'll have a harder time adapting to society when the time comes."

Steve nodded thoughtfully before he said comfortingly.

"I know Dr. Raynor is abrasive, but I think this is going to be good for (Y/n) in the long run."

Bucky stayed quiet, mulling over Steve's words before Steve added with another grimace as he continued watching the show as the over-the-top action sequence continued.

"You know, I might have to agree with Tony on this one."

Suddenly, (Y/n) spoke up again, the group regarding her with serious looks as they actively listened, (Y/n)'s eyes firmly on the screen as she pursed her lips into a small line.

"The tall one-he should have double-checked his exits. There's too much backlighting. He would have been shot before he made it to the stairs."

Tony exclaimed, gesturing to the screen as he agreed.

"See, she gets it. The shows a joke. You don't just walk into a haunted house like it's an everyday trip to Costco."

Sam gave Tony an amused look, leaning back in his seat.

"You say that as if you've been to haunted houses and a Costco."

Tony deadpanned slightly, giving Sam a look.

"I've been to both. One is full of ghosts, and the other is a haunted house."

Natasha snorted while Bucky and Steve gave Tony a confused look, and Sam just shook his head. (Y/n) looked unsure of what to do before glancing at Bucky as he spoke.

"She's not wrong. I'd take her over Dean Winchester in a fight any day."

(Y/n) then frowned, speaking as seriously as she could.

"That is not a fair comparison. He makes too much noise."

Steve couldn't help but to laugh gently, and Tony raised his hands in mock-surrender.

"I rest my case."

As the show continued on and the group continued to bicker and critique among each other, Steve took a moment to observe (Y/n). it was the first time he had actually sat together with her, despite the setting being in a group, but it was the first time he had an opportunity to interact with her; to really see her.

She was completely different than when Steve had first encountered her.

There was no more hostility and danger that stayed attached to her like a weapon in the earlier days of her recovery. No emptiness, no calculating looks, no cold precision that exuded from the soldier. Instead, Steve began to see a woman that was starting to become free from the weight of HYDRA one dry critique at a time.

She was sitting stiffly, her hands in her lap and shoulders small as if she wasn't sure if she was allowed to take up the space that she was in, but Steve watched as (Y/n)'s eyes darted around. She was listening, observing, learning, and living within the moment.

It made Steve feel happy despite the images that were still haunting his mind. Instead, a new image began to form: a woman who was slowly reclaiming her humanity; learning to be more than what HYDRA, Rollins, and Holloway had made her.

Steve was proud. He was proud of (Y/n), but he was also proud of the group attempting to give (Y/n) a sense of what human normalcy was. Steve glanced away from (Y/n) when Bucky nudged him softly, his face looking forlorn as he murmured.

"I also found some things out too...about Rebecca."

Steve was surprised, not having expected Bucky to mention his little sister, and he asked.

"What did you find out?"

Bucky's lips turned up slightly into a sad smile, glancing at Steve.

"I found out she had kids...a son and a daughter...and she named her son after me."

Steve was floored, the surprise evident on his face, and he asked.

"How did you find this out?"

Bucky swallowed thickly and explained quietly.

"I found (Y/n)'s Aunt Mavis...the woman that took (Y/n) to Shelbyville for the summers. Mavis and Rebecca knew each other, and then (Y/n) met Rebecca through Mavis. Mavis told me everything."

Steve was quiet, his eyes staring into Bucky's as the weight of his words settled over the man, and Steve finally asked him.

"Have you met them?"

Bucky let out a humorless chuckle.

"How could I? I doubt they would even know or remember anything about me. It'd be for the best to let them keep living their lives."

"Buck, you don't have to shut them out like that. I'm sure they'd love to get to know their uncle."

Bucky shook his head, his lips pressing into a line as he became apprehensive.

"I doubt they would want to know their uncle that used to be an assassin and killed hundreds of people."

Steve gave Bucky a firm look, but before Steve could reply, Tony exclaimed as he gestured to the show with a teasing tone to his voice.

"Hey, Cap, that guy kind of looks like you."

Steve spun his head around, the sudden callout immediately stealing his attention, and his eyes went onto the screen. There was a new character on the screen that he hadn't seen yet, black hair and blue eyes and a long trench coat on his shoulders. Steve frowned heavily in confusion, but before he could ask for elaboration, Tony stated.

"Emotionally constipated, confused, horrible sense of fashion. They've got you down to a T."

Steve looked taken back, an offended look coming upon his face.

"Horrible sense of fashion? I dress nicely."

Before Tony could retort, Sam pointed out with a playful but accusatory look on his face.

"I thought you hated the damn show. Why the hell are you still watching?"

Tony waved Sam off, shaking his head.

"It's helping me to debate on if I need to buy the studio to give them a few pointers and help them with that horrible writing."

Natasha chuckled, and (Y/n) suddenly glanced over at her, murmuring.

"Can we have another bath today?"

Natasha immediately nodded, giving (Y/n) a soft expression.

"After the day I've had? I think a bath and some wine sounds fantastic."

At the subtle mention of the court trial, (Y/n) became quiet, everyone within the room immediately noticing. (Y/n) looked down at her lap, fiddling with the hem of her shirt, and she murmured soft enough that it was almost a whisper.

"Thank you...for...fighting for me."

Her eyes flicked back up to the screen, her shyness slowly melting away again as (Y/n) began to watch the show again. Natasha was gently smiling at the woman, simply observing her, and Steve looked surprised by the shy thanks.

Tony's expression became observant as he watched the woman with a gentle look within his eyes. Bucky and Sam shared a look, but it was Tony who broke the silence and made (Y/n) look at him.

"We're the Avengers, kid, it's kind of what we do."

(Y/n) didn't say anything at first, only staring Tony down with a quiet look of content before she nodded once, and her eyes went back to the screen. Bucky glanced at Tony, who looked right back at him, and for once, Bucky felt a new sense of understanding build between them both.

Suddenly, Steve's phone rang, and Bucky immediately knew exactly who it was without having to look at the caller ID or inquire. Steve simply glanced at Bucky with a quiet nod before he stood, and Natasha sighed, stretching her legs.

"Alright, that's enough horrible writing for one night. Let's go take that bath, (Y/n). Maybe we can have Wanda join. I think she's gonna need a girl's night just as bad as we do."

(Y/n) nodded, slowly standing up, and her feet were silent as she padded across the room after Natasha. Steve left to a quieter part of the lab, and Sam, Bucky, and Tony were left to sit together.

The silence was comfortable but heavy, the show slowly being forgotten, and Shuri stepped forward finally, the men turning to look at her as she stood before them. Shuri ran a hand through her braids, sighing slightly.

"I have done some research into the locations that Rollins gave us during Mr. Rogers' interrogation. It seems the task of rooting out HYDRA will be much more difficult than we anticipated. Most of these locations are very high-profile places with many high-profile individuals. Taking these people down will only incite more legal ramifications...and will be a very long and difficult process."

Sam asked, crossing his arms as he sat back in his seat, immediately slipping back into business as he looked at the woman.

"How bad are we talking?"

Shuri sat down where (Y/n) and Natasha had been sitting, her frown deep as she spoke.

"We are no longer talking about abandoned HYDRA facilities or labs. We're talking about people in power and with intricate reach: CEO's, Senators, World Leaders, the list goes on. If we are not careful and do not strategize this to the very letter, we risk starting a war that we cannot control."

Bucky frowned, clenching his jaw slightly before he glanced down at the floor, and Tony sighed before asking Shuri.

"Alright, then what do you want to do?"

Shuri clasped her hands together, pursing her lips.

"With something so complex as this, I believe the best course of action is to enlist the help of Nicholas Fury. With Fury's extensive knowledge, background, and connections, we might be able to move much more quietly within the shadows."

Shuri paused before looking at the men within the room.

"Instead of HYDRA hiding among us...we must hide among them."

-

STORY NOTES: The scene opens to the Avengers returning to Wakanda after the court case, sullen despite the triumph over the case. When they go to Shuri's lab to discuss their next steps in taking down the rest of HYDRA, they are surprised to see Sam, Bucky and (Y/n) watching Supernatural. Sam and Bucky are bickering with each other about the action elements in the show, and (Y/n) begins to critique the show as well. At the revelation of (Y/n)'s relaxation and settling, Natasha points out the observation before engaging with (Y/n) about the show.

Steve sits to begin watching the show with them as well, and Tony makes his appearance to jab about the show. On the other side of the lab, Shuri quietly begins to research into the locations that Rollins had provided during his interrogation. Steve inquires about the show with Bucky, and Bucky explains that it was Sam's idea to put on and observes that (Y/n) seemed to be enjoying it despite her dry critiques. Bucky then tells Steve about his phone call with Dr. Raynor, and Steve says that Bucky must not be very happy about it. Bucky disagrees, telling Steve that (Y/n) will have a harder time adapting to society without professional help. Steve offers his input, stating that it would be good for her in the long run.

The moment is broken by (Y/n) critiquing the show again, and Tony agrees, making a joke about the show. The rest of the group chimes in and begins to bicker playfully with each other, Steve takes the time to observe (Y/n). He recalls how hostile (Y/n) had been during his first interaction with her when she was still under HYDRA's control and how different she is compared to now. He mulls over her a little bit more before thinking of how proud he is of the woman for trying, and his thoughts are broken by Bucky revealing the bombshell about his sister.

Bucky then goes on to tell Steve how he found the information out, telling Steve about (Y/n)'s Aunt Mavis, and Steve asks if Bucky has gone to meet his niece and nephew. Bucky tells him no, and remarks that he doubted they would want to meet him due to his past as the Winter Soldier. Before Steve can retort, Tony makes a jab about Steve being like Castiel, and the group begins to bicker again. The bickering is stopped by (Y/n) asking Natasha if they could take a bath later, and Natasha agrees. When Natasha makes a subtle comment about the court trial, (Y/n) becomes quiet before thanking the group for fighting for her. Tony responds by simple stating that they were the Avengers, and 'that's what we do'. At the sound of Steve's phone ringing, Natasha takes that as a cue to exit with (Y/n), and Sam, Bucky, and Tony are left alone together.

Shuri then approaches the three men, informing them of her research into the HYDRA facilities, and reveals that the locations and research indicate that the circumstances have become more complex due to the remainder of HYDRA being high-profile individuals. When Tony asks Shuri what her desire to do is, Shuri suggests calling Nicholas Fury for help due to his connections, background, and extensive knowledge of espionage. She suggests to turn the tides: Instead of HYDRA hiding within them, they were going to hide within HYDRA. End scene.

TRANSLATIONS:

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TAGLIST: @softpia @thebl00dwyrm @buckvoidsyy @chonkybonky @seemsxsketchy @tilldeathripsusapart @vicmc624 @mgchaser @aash3 @samfunko @seventeen-x @valckenaux @babybeeelle @sc4rrc @cjand10 @bane-y-zane @notsostrangerthing @thenameswinter99 @bumblebeebutter @torntaltos

[mariacallous]

European officials are weighing how to respond to US efforts to thwart local DEI programs, as the two regions come closer than ever to clashing over anti-discrimination policies.

US embassies across Europe have spent the past few weeks sending letters to companies and public offices doing business with the American government, demanding that they certify that they don’t have diversity, equity and inclusion programs that violate US law now that Donald Trump is in the White House.

The European Commission is aware of the issue and is currently working with European Union member states to figure out the impact of the US campaign and how best to respond, a spokesperson for the bloc’s executive branch told Bloomberg. DEI issues such as gender equality are enshrined in European law.

Secretary of State Marco Rubio is committed to ensuring that Trump’s executive order banning DEI initiatives is carried out by the department and US embassies, a State Department spokesperson said by email.

The US campaign has left Europeans bewildered, with politicians and business heads speaking out in dismay at the development.

Jan Valeskog, vice mayor for planning for the city of Stockholm, said staff were “shocked” when the department got a letter in early May. In the correspondence, the US embassy in Sweden gave the city of Stockholm 10 days to confirm that it would comply with the order to drop DEI, he said.

“Of course we’ll not do that,” Valeskog said in an interview. “For us, it’s very important to work with diversity, equality and inclusion,” he said, noting that the requirement is legally binding in Sweden.

[chaotic-archaeologist]

So to make a long story semi short; during fall term a couple unknowing found a set of mastodon teeth and brought to my anthropology professor at the college, since then they conducted some field work and found more bone. They obviously stopped because of winter but in summer the college will be offering a field work class to go help at the site. I want to do that, but as mentioned before I have Cerebral Palsy which means I don't have a lot of upper body strength or flexibility. But I can still do a lot. My I guess problem is my Professors respect me and that's hard for me to get with all the ableism and I worked hard these last two semesters to break out of my shell to get here , I guess I just don't want to 1. make a fool of myself 2. be a hindrance and/or mess something up

any advice?

This sounds like an incredible opportunity, and I would definitely encourage you to pursue it! I hear your concerns about embarrassing yourself and being a hindrance, but I think you should reframe your thinking around facts that 1) everybody deserves learning experiences regardless of their physical ability, and 2) there are things you can do that will be an asset to the excavation.

Some of these things include taking notes and photographs, documenting and storing finds, and working with any digital tools like GPS units. You may also be able to do lab work and different kinds of analysis, depending on what they find and how they run the program. A good supervisor (although not all are created equal) will be willing to work with you to come up with a plan for how you can participate and what that will look like.

Usually, classes like this have applications where students list their relevant coursework and write a brief personal statement about why they want to participate. There are a couple of ways you could go about this in regards to disclosing your disability and seeking accommodations. You can either:

Disclose early: this would entail including something about your disability in your personal statement, in an email to the professor running the dig, etc.

Disclose later: submit your application without mentioning your disability. Feel free to mention how hard you've worked to get where you are, and if you want to talk about vague challenges with your health as part of that, it's up to you. If you are accepted to the dig, ask for a meeting with the supervisor where you can then explain your needs and what you are able to do.

Generally, I advise erring on the side of disclosing later rather than earlier. As I'm sure you're aware, prejudice and implicit bias are unfortunately a thing, and sometimes the only way to protect yourself from those impeding your application is to withhold information (although obviously this isn't an option if the professor already knows you). Additionally, you have legal protections against discrimination that are much easier to enforce after you have been accepted.

That being said, I've been heartened to see that more and more people in archaeology spaces are thinking about what accessibility means in field settings and how to include people with disabilities.—perhaps this is also the case with whoever is running this dig. Archaeology is for everyone, and there are many roles in an excavation for someone who can't do physical labor.

Finally, I'll close with some resources that might be helpful.

The Disabled Archaeologists Network: while I don't think they have a ton of programming for undergraduates (yet), membership is free and can put you in touch with

Field Tested: an article about a disabled student who was able to participate in a geology field school (similar levels of work to an archaeology one). It discusses some of the accommodations the student needed, and what they were able to do.

Here's an article by Dr. Anita Marshall, the professor who ran that accessible field school. Its content isn't substantially different from the one I linked above, but at the end it also cites some good literature about accessibility in field work. You should be able to access a lot of those publications through your institution's library or @jstor's free (or institutional) service.

Good luck, -Reid

[finsubbybedwetter]

Good afternoon, please have a seat. I am an administration officer acting under the authority of the Male Reproductive Rights Reform Act. You are here today to receive official notice that your MRRRA standing has been lowered to Restricted/Developmentally-impaired in response to the recent update in your medical history.

Please confirm for the record that you recently reported a bedwetting episode to you doctor. Thank you. I presume that you were not aware that male adult bedwetting has recently been reclassified as a prohibitive developmental impairment. Yes, we are aware that you only reported a single incident. However, as your medical records indicate that you experienced frequent bedwetting throughout your teens, we consider this episode to be indicative of relapse into chronic, habitual bedwetting, which is grounds for immediate corrective action.

You have been enrolled into the Adult General Urinary Incontinence Correction Program at a male remedial facility. More commonly referred to informally as the toilet training program. Yes, we understand that you have no history of full incontinence, but as bedwetting was only recently recognized as a prohibitive condition, we do not currently have a remedial program more specific to your needs. Also, studies have shown that daytime wetting is disproportionately common and often under-reported in bedwetters. We believe this program will be a good fit for you.

You will undergo corrective therapy and continuous assessment over a six week period. The corrective component of the program consists of hypnotherapy and severe negative reinforcement. You will be diapered at all times during your stay at the facility, and fitted with a moisture-sensing alarm to ensure accurate record keeping of wetting incidents for assessment and disciplinary purposes. I believe you had some experience with this kind of alarm in your teens so this should be quite familiar to you. Yes, you will be diapered at all times, not only for bed. Please understand that program rules do not permit us to make any exceptions for your case.

Bathroom visits will be restricted to a fixed schedule and fluid intake will be managed to ensure that you receive an accurate assessment. In order to keep our assessment false positive rate within MRRRA guidelines, the bathroom schedule and fluid intake minimums have been tuned to be challenging for an adult male with average bladder control and extremely challenging for impaired individuals such as yourself. We have also found that stressing program participants in this way boosts the efficacy of the negative reinforcement component of the program.

At the conclusion of the program, your assessment results will be reviewed by committee and you will be prescribed assessment outcomes. Outcomes vary widely. The more severe outcomes include permanent revocation of reproductive rights, castration, gender reassignment, and in instances involving developmental impairment such as yours, revocation of legal adulthood.

Should you receive a favorable assessment, your standing will be lifted to Qualified-unrestricted/Developmentally-impaired. Yes that's correct - your diagnosis as an adult bedwetter is permanent and thus will be reflected in your public record regardless of assessment result. A favorable assessment only indicates that you are not currently experiencing symptoms. Also, please be aware that current and future employers and sexual partners, if any, will be notified of your condition. Though, having seen your file it looks like you won't need worry about that second part..

That concludes this proceeding. When you leave this office you will be escorted to the facility for induction. Your assessment period has already begun. I hope I don't have to tell you that any non-compliance will reflect extremely poorly.

Alright, now that that's done and we're off the record, I can finally be honest with you. You're fucked. I've sent dozens of pissy-pants virgins just like you through this program, and you know what? You losers always come out more pathetic than you went in. Right now you're just a bedwetter, but in six weeks time you're going to be a stuttering, subservient, diaper-dependent sissy. You want my advice? Don't fight it. Forget about "favorable assessment". Forget about ever losing your virginity. Think of this as six weeks to adjust to your new life.