#Attendee engagement

[whatudottu]

Bestie I have got to tell you Mal TD totally listens to the Shadow the Hedgehog OST, and depending on the Total Drama timeline it would literally be perfect timing like- you can’t tell me this edgy teen nerd didn’t see a Sonic character with a gun and DIDN’T think it was cool, come on!

[clios-purls]

Sometimes, sometimes a fic is marketed so directly at you, that you have simply no choice but to spend all day reading it

[dandyshucks]

whyyyy does nobody ever come back to this group fjdkdl they show up once for a first time and then never return !!! its kind of crushing bc some ppl I've been like... excited at the prospect of seeing them again and then they just never show up ever again :')

and I didn't even get to draw anything good while sitting there !!! AUGH

[chronicbitchsyndrome]

i have been in community with profoundly developmentally disabled peers and peers with brain damage my whole life, bc i had a childhood diagnosis. i have also been leftist my whole life; my mother was a marxist and raised me that way, and while their politics were absolute dogshit, they were lefty dogshit.

my entire life, i have seen leftist educators throw mentally disabled people away as "lost causes" because they couldn't engage with the material the way it was being presented. leftist outreach and education does, genuinely, have a massive lack of accessible material. to be blunt, people are not interested in retrofitting their leftist outreach to be accessible to people who learn best through episodes of sesame street.

as in, i have repeatedly faced outright laughter and cruelty over the idea that this could be a priority. or even something that we consider doing at all.

"people who are that mentally disabled don't need to know about these things," the kindest interpretation goes. ("people who are that mentally disabled don't interact with the world, anyway, they're all in institutions or monitored 24/7 by their parents," the uncharitable underlying assumptions go. "they wouldn't be a worker who needs a union. or a library attendee. or a member of the community garden. or a volunteer at the food bank. or or or")

the people i have seen this hurt the worst, over and over again, are profoundly mentally disabled people of color whose lack of access to accessible antiracist education is causing real danger in their lives. institutionalized disabled people of color who have learned racist ideology and behaviors from white authority, whether they were adopted by white families or incarcerated in care institutions run by white staff. who are treated lower than garbage by leftist educators, who view them as "lost causes," as unworthy of time and effort and attention, as deserving of their abuses because they... what... internalized the abuses that make up every aspect of their lives since birth?

i see people saying things in this conversation like "disability isn't an excuse for racism or transphobia or whatever, people have the obligation to improve themselves." oh, believe me, i have seen again and again how many privileged disabled people utilize their disabilities to punch down on others, try to escape accountability for their punching down by citing disability. but individual weaponization of identity is just that: weaponization of identity.

the power structures at play are what they are. it is a noble and admirable goal to want leftist outreach and education to be more accessible to all. if that is truly your goal, you must eventually reckon with the existence of people who do, actually, really need it presented in a picture book. or an episode of bluey. or a conversation where you only use examples of people they know in real life, using things that happened to them personally. the existence of people who cannot grasp forms of abstract reasoning, who need information presented as rules, or as guidelines, or as categories. the idea that yes, fully grown adults who need daniel tiger to explain racism to them are human beings who not only deserve access to that very thing, but who also deserve to be a part of leftist spaces and benefit from leftist organizing. are people for whom it might be INTEGRAL they get to be a part of leftism. are victims of racism themselves and suffering without access to antiracist spaces and community and support.

and you will need to reckon with the abject cruelty of your peers who laugh and mock the very idea of this. you need to reckon with the fact that a lot of people you respect, a lot of leftists doing genuinely good work, will respond to this by making fun of the people you're serving, even outright telling you their violent fantasies about these people. that is the experience of organizing in leftist spaces for profoundly disabled people. that is why so many of us burn out so fast. there IS a structural problem with mentally disabled people being seen as disposable and not a part of community. and it is EXTREMELY present in leftist organizing and outreach efforts.

[sociocosmos]

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[pigeonpeach]

Jealous harbingers

Warning: yandere like tendencies or behaviors but not fully. Also ofc jealously and violence

Characters: Childe, Capitano, Dottore, Pantalone, Arlecchino, Columbina, Sandrone

Childe is definitely the worst when it comes to jealousy. He’s number 11 so he’s eager to rise up the ranks, but he also refuses to bring you around the other harbingers because he worries they’d use you to get to him. And it would work. Hook line and sinker. Even if its innocent. The only harbinger he’d let you around is Puncinella and that’s because the guy is like family to him so of course he doesn’t mind. But if he must he has you close 24/7. He cuts off his colleagues if they get too comfortable and is quick to show displays of affection as of means to dissuade anyone. He also will leave enough hickies to make you look like a dalmation

Capitano is actually very calm when jealous. For the simple fact that scenario is incredibly unlikely to happen. No man is stupid enough to flirt with his partner, especially when you’re consistently guarded and accompanied. Not even Dottore would risk his wrath. But if some idiot does decide to try they won’t last long. Like at all. He will just grab them by their skull and toss them like they’re a lingering piece of garbage. He will not leave hickies on you however because with his strength that could actually do serious damage and he just refuses to risk hurting for that. He will likely have you wear his insignia in some way on your outfit if you go out without him.

Dottore is worse but hes good at covering for it. Like Captiano he is less likely to let you be alone in public without him or underling. But he knows you’re a beautiful sight so you would catch a eye or too. You won’t know that the underlings avoid your gaze because the last few that lingered their gaze quickly became test subjects of some horrible experiments. He is also not stupid enough to show you off to the other harbingers. You’re likely in your own wing of the lab building in a comfortable environment with attendees far from where any colleague of his is allowed to go. Although he will probably get jealous of his clones. The younger segments are more neutral towards you but the older ones are more likely to try and hold you or kiss your hand while he’s not in the room. It’s quite a mess for him.

Pantalone is not like Dottore in that he will show off his prized jewel in the appropriate settings. They wear custom matching outfits meant to clearly indicate they are his, jewelry paralleling his own, with a hand on the waist at all times as he mostly dominates conversations with strangers or colleagues. He is proud that you are his. He makes it well known. In public he is usually not so touchy minus holding you. But if he notices the lingering gazes and jealous stares he gets he won’t hesitate to stoke those agitation as a way of showing dominance. For instance he may pull you into s dance in which he keeps you pressed so close to him. He may pull you in for a quick kiss or a long one depending on how mischievous he is feeling.

Arlecchino

You’ll need not to deal with such things. More likely than not you’ll be busy in the orphanage. The rare occasion she allows you to accompany her is for special events she thinks you would enjoy. Often times your shared children are also brought as body guards to you. So you won’t be left alone. If any would be suitor comes by they’ll swiftly redirect them and engage if they get violent. But if a harbinger were to try their luck…. Arlecchino will not hold her tongue nor keep up appearances as she pulls you from the conversation and kindly reminds said harbinger to keep their hands to themselves. Once you’re home safe and alone however her teeth with be in your neck making enough hickies to make you into a leopard.

Sandrone

You are her most prized possession by far. Beautiful puppets and such. She is seldom seen in public or in events. Often sending underlings in her stead. It helps she’s also not nearly as social able or diplomatic. But she is a very jealous lover. She hates the idea of anyone else having eyes on you. She may subtly influence you to stay by her side more and more. Not even the most arrogant harbinger would dare to challenge her.

Columbina

She is actually least likely to be jealous. She’s a odd woman. But if she didn’t think you would stay loyal then she wouldn’t have let you out of the house today anyways! Your attire is tailored and customized to match hers. Sometimes you dawn a veil as she thinks if she sees your pretty face too much she’ll loose all restraint and just get carried away with you. Truly a strange woman. Not even the most reckless of harbingers would challenge her.

[transform4u]

Through the Looking Glass---bro

Atticus Conway, a 32-year-old art maven with a hipster edge, strolled into the contemporary art gallery, his attire a blend of vintage band t-shirt layered under a worn denim jacket, paired with well-worn Converse sneakers. His boss beckoned from the entrance, amidst the eclectic crowd that mingled beneath the soft glow emanating from the center of the room.

The gallery exuded a fusion of minimalism and sophistication, its white walls serving as a stark backdrop for abstract masterpieces. At its heart stood The Matrix��a sprawling lattice of translucent panels forming a walkable installation, pulsating softly with an ever-shifting spectrum of colors. Attendees, ranging from avant-garde eccentrics to sleek sophisticates, engaged in muted conversations and occasionally clinked glasses as they explored the transformative potential of the Matrix.

Atticus was drawn closer by the installation’s allure, its promise of blurring the boundaries between technology and personal expression. Some visitors had already ventured into The Matrix, their movements triggering dynamic responses from its structure. He observed cautiously, appreciating the installation’s energy and its impact on the gallery-goers.

Designed to accentuate the avant-garde spirit of the exhibition, the gallery itself was a work of art—clean lines and an expansive layout creating an experimental playground. As Atticus navigated through the crowd, the symphony of soft whispers, the hum of the Matrix, and occasional gasps of awe formed a backdrop to the artistic exploration unfolding around him.

The Matrix had been completed only moments before the opening—a testament to the eccentricity of its creator, an old man whose exacting instructions had been followed to the letter. Its otherworldly presence glittered and shimmered, a tunnel stretching infinitely through the gallery space, hinting at vague shapes and possibilities beyond its translucent panels.

Stepping forward with a glass of prosecco in hand, Atticus was the first to enter the walkway. The mirrors inside rippled and shimmered, reflecting his hipster persona back at him a thousand times over. Initially awestruck by the spectacle, he soon felt a peculiar sensation—a lingering feeling that the mirrors were watching him, even when he turned away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Atticus noticed something unsettling—his own reflection seemed to wear a twisted smirk, staring back at him with a gaze that felt intrusive. He dismissed it at first, attributing it to the immersive nature of the installation.

A few steps ahead, he encountered a large panel—a full-length mirror. As he approached, his reflection wiggled and vibrated unnervingly. Peering at himself, Atticus was taken aback by the expression on his own face—it seemed contorted into one of disgust, a stark contrast to his genuine admiration for the art surrounding him.

Attempting to look away, he was startled to hear a voice emanating from the mirror, mocking him with crossed arms and a sarcastic tone. "Don't look away… Look at yourself… God, you're boring…"

Turning around abruptly, Atticus faced his reflection, bewildered by the unexpected interaction. His mirrored counterpart rolled its eyes mockingly, a gesture that cut through the enchantment of the moment. "God, we've got our work cut out for us…"

Atticus Conway, caught in the bewildering depths of The Matrix installation, stared in horror as his reflection twisted into a sinister smile, its eyes seemingly glowing with an unnatural intensity. The once-familiar face now bore an unsettling expression that mocked him with a knowing smirk.

"So, pathetic Atticus," the reflection taunted in a voice that echoed eerily within the mirrored chamber. "But that's why I'm here—here to help. I can see into your very soul. Your desires. Your wants. Your fears. And most importantly, your rage. That fire burning in you."

"What the hell kind of trick is this?" Atticus shouted, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and fear. He attempted to turn away, to escape the unnerving spectacle unfolding before him, but everywhere he looked, he was met with more mirrors, each reflecting his own image back at him, each bearing a different facet of his personality.

"Oh, there's no escaping now, baby boy," the reflection sneered, its tone dripping with malice. "I'm here to bring out the worst of you, but by the time I'm done with you, you—hah—you certainly won't think so."

Atticus' heart raced as he witnessed the reflections morphing before his eyes. They twisted and contorted, each portraying a different version of himself—a twink with styled hair and fashionable attire; a jock with a confident grin; a nerdy version with glasses and a book in hand; an overweight ex-jock struggling with his identity; a tougher looking black Atticus, a middle eastern Atticus with thick muscles; a desperate straight man clutching at his phone; a closeted young man hiding behind a facade; a frat bro with a swaggering attitude; an arrogant jerk with a sneer.

Each reflection seemed to delve into a fragment of his psyche, exposing vulnerabilities and hidden aspects of his persona that he had never acknowledged.

As Atticus Conway stood amidst the labyrinth of mirrors, the reflections before him began to laugh—a haunting, ominous sound that reverberated through the chamber. The mirrors around them pulsated in response, the soft glow intensifying into a crescendo of brilliant light.

Atticus instinctively raised his arms to shield himself as the mirrors burst with a deafening crash, shards of glass spraying in all directions. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, feeling the sting of glass against his skin despite his efforts to protect himself.

When he cautiously opened his eyes again, he found himself standing outside the art installation, amidst a stunned crowd of onlookers. They stared at him with a mixture of concern and curiosity, murmuring amongst themselves about what had just transpired.

Blinking to clear his disorientation, Atticus noticed a small cut on his cheek from a stray piece of glass. He reached up to touch the blood, intending to brush it away, when a strange sensation coursed through his body—a surge of energy that seemed to pulse through every fiber of his being.

He let out a frustrated groan, feeling his blood pumping vigorously through his veins. His muscles began to tingle and swell, starting from his core. A heat spread through his stomach as his abdomen tightened and sculpted into a tight, defined six-pack, the muscles rippling beneath his skin.

Atticus gasped as he felt his pecs pulsate with newfound energy, growing and expanding, stretching his shirt taut over his broadening chest. His shoulders widened, his biceps and triceps bulging with strength. His lats flared out, emphasizing his athletic build.

His legs followed suit, his thighs thickening with muscle, his calves firming beneath his jeans. Even his feet seemed to grow slightly, yet miraculously, his clothes adapted seamlessly to accommodate the transformation.

Atticus couldn't help but flex involuntarily, testing the newfound power surging through his body. The sensation was both exhilarating and unnerving, a physical transformation that defied explanation.

As he stood amidst the bewildered crowd, Atticus felt a surge of confidence and vitality unlike anything he had experienced before. With a deep breath, he straightened his posture, his expression a mix of wonder and determination.

A sudden craving gripped him—a primal urge for booze. With a swagger that was uncharacteristic of the laid-back art maven, he pushed his way through to the bar, demanding rudely for a shot of tequila from the startled bartender.

"Give me a shot. Now!" Atticus barked, his voice laced with an entitled tone that seemed to emerge from nowhere.

The bartender hesitated for a moment, taken aback by Atticus' abrupt demeanor, but reluctantly poured him a shot. Atticus downed it swiftly, the fiery liquid burning down his throat and igniting a rush of adrenaline. He slammed the glass back on the counter and demanded another, then another, each shot fueling his sense of entitlement and privilege.

As the liquor coursed through his veins, his features seemed to shift—his jaw becoming more pronounced, his face taking on a chiseled and manly appearance. A widening nose and a scruffy beard began to form on his once-boyish face, while a deep tan spread across his exposed skin.

His demeanor turned cocky, exuding an aura of arrogance that was worlds away from his usual approachable nature. With a burp that echoed through the bar after his final shot, Atticus leaned back, his eyes gleaming with a newfound sense of bravado.

The once-artistic Atticus now seemed like a caricature of bro culture, his clothes appearing garish and mismatched as if chosen to attract attention. His actions drew stares from other patrons, some amused and others bewildered by the sudden change in him.

Atticus leaned heavily on the bar, scanning the room with a self-assured grin. "Hey, bartender," he slurred, his voice tinged with bravado. "You ever seen gains like these?" He flexed his newly muscular arms, oblivious to the bemused looks around him.

The bartender raised an eyebrow, unsure how to respond to this altered version of Atticus. "Uh, sure, man," he replied cautiously. "You hit the gym hard?"

Atticus launched into an intense monologue about his workout routine, detailing his protein intake and the hours spent sculpting his physique. His gestures became exaggerated, his voice booming with enthusiasm as he regaled the bartender with tales of his gym achievements.

But suddenly, a sharp pain pierced his temples. Atticus winced, clutching his head as if trying to ward off the throbbing ache. In that moment, he felt something slipping away—a passion for art, a knowledge of Picasso and Van Gogh fading like a distant tide.

"So, like, uh, this art is like pretty cool right? Like uh, I like uh---" Atticus muttered, his voice slurring. He tried to explain a painting from the gallery, but his words came out muddled and confused. "It's like, colors and stuff, man. You know?"

The bartender couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Yeah, I think I get what you mean."

Slowly, Atticus straightened up, he rubbed his temples, the remnants of his headache lingering. The bartender looked up from wiping the counter and smiled, his gaze lingering on Atticus for a moment before he spoke. "So, you enjoying your night?" His voice was warm and friendly, almost like he was genuinely interested in Atticus' response.

Atticus couldn't help but feel a sense of unease at the question. It wasn't that he wasn't enjoying himself - far from it actually. But something about the way the bartender asked made him uncomfortable. Like there was an underlying tone to his words that made Atticus feel like they were flirting or something worse…

Without thinking, anger filled Atticus as if someone had flipped a switch inside him. He straightened up again and narrowed his eyes at the bartender in response to what felt like unwanted attention. "You fucking hitting on me bro? That's fucking gross dude! I'm not a fucking homo!" He slammed down his drink glass hard enough to make ice cubes rattle against each other loudly while glaring daggers at the man behind the bar who looked taken aback by this sudden outburst of rage from someone who moments ago seemed perfectly content with their company."Faggot!" He spat out before storming off into oblivion where even memories no longer exist.

With the booze and anger flowing through him, Atticus' smile turned into a cocky sneer. He strutted through the art gallery like he owned the place, his eyes scanning for any woman who caught his attention. And when he found one, there was no holding back - he grabbed her ass without hesitation or remorse.

As he passed through the gallery, Atticus continued to shamelessly flirt with every woman in sight. It didn't matter if they were interested or not; all that mattered was satisfying his own twisted desires at this point. But then something happened that threw him off balance: a random chick stopped him to ask about an art piece she didn't understand.

Atticus found the nerdy art chick, Emily, extremely attractive. Her glasses only added to her charm and he couldn't help but feel drawn to her intelligence as well. "Hey there, cutie. What's your name?"

"I'm Emily. And you are?" she says blushing.

Atticus just starts flexing and mumbles, "Oh, just a guy trying to get his dick wet. So, what do you think of this painting here? It looks like some abstract shit to me"

"That's not abstract art; it's actually an interpretation of the artist's feelings about the current state of politics in their country. The colors represent different emotions they experienced while creating it, and the shapes symbolize various issues they faced during that time period… haha...Sorry, but I can tell you don't know much about modern art techniques or concepts used by contemporary artists these days…"

"Fuck off you woke bitch! You think you know everything just because you wear glasses and read books all day long?! Go back to your little nerd cave before I punch those fucking glasses off your face!" Atticus shouts as he storms off to another bar, with a hot busty blonde waitress, leaving behind a trail of confusion mixed with humiliation within himself as well as those around them who witnessed this exchange between two people who couldn't be more different from each other socially speaking.

Atticus made his way to the next bar, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. As he approached, he noticed a ditzy blonde bartender with tight shirt barely containing her busty chest. She was giggling vapidly to herself as she wiped down the counter, completely oblivious to Atticus' presence.

Without hesitation, Atticus began flirting with her shamelessly. He leaned in close enough for their bodies to touch and started leering at her boobs which were on full display through her tight top. His voice grew deeper and developed an accent - it was clear that this man had lived a life far from luxury or education; one filled with hardship and struggle where language wasn't always properly taught or understood but rather learned through experience alone… And it showed in how he spoke now - thick brogue rolling off his tongue like honey dripping from a spoon onto freshly-baked cookies hot out of the oven… Delicious yet dangerous all at once…

"Hey there," Atticus drawled as he placed his order for another drink, "I ain't got no clue 'bout them art pieces ya got hangin' around here but I do know what makes me feel good…" He flexed slightly before continuing on about how dumb those 'art crap' are compared to what really matters in life: getting laid and having fun while doing so without any cares or worries holding you back because let's face it – we only live once so why waste time thinking too much when we could be enjoying ourselves instead?

The bartender, Amber, smiled brightly at him before introducing herself. "I'm Amber," she said sweetly as she leaned closer to him, her cleavage on full display through the tight fabric of her shirt. "And what's your name big guy?"

Atticus paused for a moment, his mind blank as he tried to remember his own damn name. Finally, after a few seconds had passed by without any answer forthcoming from him, he managed to muster up something that sounded vaguely familiar: "Uhhh… Jackson… yeah. Jackson Armstrong."

As they talked more about trivial matters, Atticus couldn't help but think back on his past - growing up in the south where church was mandatory every Sunday; attending college parties every weekend until dawn broke; being a 21-year old frat bro who would probably drop out soon as he now thought college was for losers. It all seemed so distant now compared to this new persona emerging within him – one filled with conservative ideals and passion for tradition above all else… His liberal ideals slipped into oblivion as easily as water down a drainpipe while Jackson took over completely.

"So Amber," Jackson drawled as he leaned in closer to her, his voice dripping with vapid entitlement, "you know what I think would make this night even better?" She shook her head no before he continued on with his plan: "I think we should go back to my place and continue our conversation there… Without all these distractions." He winked at her playfully while giving her ass a subtle squeeze.

As memories of pranking his bros in the frathouse flooded back into Jackson's mind alongside images of blackout drunkenness each night after partying hardcore, one thing became clear - southern pride was something that ran deep within him; it defined who he was at his core regardless if others liked it or not… And right now? Well let's just say Amber looked pretty damn happy about it all too.

As Jackson continued to flirt with Amber, his muscles flexed beneath the tight fabric of his shirt. He couldn't help but feel proud of himself for finally finding someone who shared similar beliefs as him – someone who understood the importance of faith and tradition above all else… Someone who wasn't afraid to speak their mind even if it meant offending others in the process.

"I can't stand this woke bullshit," Jackson said passionately as he leaned closer to her, "It's like everyone wants to be a victim these days instead of standing up for what they believe in." Amber nodded her head in agreement before adding her own thoughts on the matter: "Exactly! It's about time people started speaking out against all this political correctness nonsense."

"You know what else pisses me off?" Jackson asked rhetorically while flexing again just for good measure, "All these damn snowflakes crying about how hard life is because they weren't born white or straight or rich or whatever else it is that bothers them nowadays…" He shook his head disapprovingly at society as a whole before continuing on with his rant: "But you know what? I wouldn't change a thing about being a white, straight republican man!"

The rest of the night was a blur for Jackson. One moment they were in the bar flirting and flexing, and then suddenly they found themselves back at his smelly frathouse… It didn't matter though because all that mattered now was fucking Amber senseless while belittling her every step of the way – being as crude and rude as possible just to get off on it all…

"You like that you stupid bitch?" He asked her between gritted teeth before slapping her ass hard enough to leave a red mark. She moaned out loud in response, begging him for more which only served to fuel his desire even further…

As he took in the football and wrestling trophies lining the walls alongside other mementos from his past glory days, Jackson grabbed a half-drunk beer from the side table before turning back towards Amber who lay naked on his bed with cum dripping down her leg. "You know what else would be fun?" He asked rhetorically while chugging down another swig of beer, "Telling everyone at school how much of a slut you are…" His voice trailed off into laughter which only served to further embarrass Amber even more than she already had been during their encounter together.

Jackson was the biggest asshole on campus – feared by nerds, lusted after by every chick, and loved by his frat bros. He was an awful conservative douchebag who always grunted in the gym while flexing his muscles; he truly believed himself to be God's gift to women… And it showed in how he treated them – with disdain and entitlement instead of respect or compassion.

As word spread about his encounter with Amber (which he made sure happened as soon as possible), Jackson couldn't help but feel proud of himself for finally being able to humiliate someone else publicly just like they had done to him countless times throughout high school… It wasn't long before every girl on campus wanted a piece of him – whether it be for sex or simply attention from such an infamous figure at their university… And every guy? Well let's just say they all wanted to be friends with Jackson so that they could ride his coattails into popularity themselves without having any real skill or talent beyond being part of "the group".

[heavenbarnes]

completely self indulgent thoughts about older!bf simon inspired by today's events at work. I work in tech/sales and a lot of my days are spent setting up new phones for people who are 35+, that for the life of them, can't figure out technology. just thinking about older!bf simon needing to get a new phone and asks reader for her thoughts, but when reader starts talking about storage size or sim cards he gets confused and just tells her "pick whatever love, I trust your judgement" not just because he does in fact, trust her judgement, but also because he can't he bothered trying to learn and understand.

have many thoughts about this.

friend, 90% of what i write is entirely self indulgent- we’ve got to do it 🫶🏼

it’s a miracle you convinced older bf!simon to finally get rid of that god forsaken flip phone and start working with an actual smartphone.

granted, it was like pulling teeth (yes the prospect of receiving nudes whilst he was deployed helped) but what mattered was he’d finally entered the 21st century.

and then he drops his cellphone on the drive and manages to boot it into the side of the neighbour’s garage. the thing was absolutely munted by the time it’d come off the end of simon’s steel cap.

which is why you’re standing in the middle of the electronics store looking at endless tables of cellphones and simon looks like he’s there at gunpoint.

“i ‘ave been held at gunpoint, was better than this”

so you lead him to the smartphones that are smart but not too smart, the ones that look hard to break or get wrong. they also look older than half the people working in the store, but that’s besides the point.

“can i help you both with anything?”

right on cue, a young but cheery guy appears across the table with a lanyard that tells you his name is hunter and he’s ready to help!

“no”

your elbow fits nicely under simon’s ribcage as you gear up to play hunter’s defence lawyer for however long this interaction is going to take.

“hi hunter, this one is looking for a new smartphone- what do you recommend?”

and while hunter does a standup job at explaining the benefits of a handful of phones he probably hasn’t sold to anyone under 75, simon is suddenly well engaged.

“and we’ve got a selection of cases, just regular ones or tough ones”

“need t’be tough, don’t want the fucker breakin’ when i’ve got someone in a headlock”

hunter pales and you veeeery slowly turn to simon with a look on your face that begs to know what the actual fuck is wrong with him.

“oh simon, you comic trailblazer- you know what, you’ve been so helpful hunter, thank you!”

you cut the kid loose as he tries to leave the table without taking his eyes off simon, who coincidentally is doing the exact same thing to him.

“would it kill you to let him help us?!”

“just about, didn’t like the way he looked at ‘ya”

the kid didn’t look a day out of school and naturally your better half has to pick a fight with any guy that so much as exists within your atmosphere.

he’s lucky he’s so handsome.

“ugh, which one do you prefer? 32GB? 64?”

“whaddyou’ reckon?”

and you’re about to let out the longest sigh known to man when you catch the look on his face.

that same look he gives you when he’s dressed up for dinner or just come back from a haircut, the look he gives you that tells you he’s looking for your opinion.

approval

“32 would do you, i don’t think you need that much space”

he grunts before he pulls you into his side, taking you both to the counter so he can get you to say all that again to your helpful attendee.

“oi, hunter”

poor guy nearly jumps out of his skin but manages to settle when he realises he’s about to close the sale, even manages to upsell that tough case.

simon settles once he’s back in the car with you, eyes scanning the box his phone comes in and grumbling something under his breath.

when you ask him to speak up you immediately wish you hadn’t.

“lost all those videos ‘f yours, better be enough space f’the new ones”

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Malicious Daughter is Back! - 1 | Bucky Barnes

Character : Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It's just a business marriage. Bucky thought it would be easy until he encountered the stepsister of his fiancée. She turned his world upside down.

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || Support : Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

It was supposed to be easy, but it's not.

He felt his hands and sensed they were shackled to this agreement. While everyone chatted and laughed at this lunch party, he couldn't share the same sentiment.

Today was the engagement party of two influential conglomerate families.

The daughter of Celestial Enterprises, which owned Luxury Goods, Smart Home Technology, Media & Entertainment, was Victoria Sinclair.

She was a strikingly beautiful woman, exuding an air of sophistication, yet there was a hint of maturity beneath her seemingly spoiled demeanor.

With a shy gesture, she reached out and gently touched her fiancé's hand. Her soft touch snapped him out of his daydream.

She gazed at his face, mesmerized by his striking features. He could easily be the most handsome man she had ever encountered in her life. Despite meeting countless models and actors, none of them held a candle to him.

Bucky Barnes was the epitome of sophistication. With his jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and impeccable suit, he exuded an aura of intelligence and quiet confidence.

As the heir to the AstraNova Group, specializing in aerospace, renewable energy, and real estate, his wealth and influence were undeniable.

He felt something creeping on his hands, he glanced down to see his fiancée Victoria touching him. Despite his discomfort, he clenched his fists, fighting the urge to lash out.

But he had to keep it together. Tonight, his psychiatrist would have to listen to his anxiety. He couldn't let anyone at this party know about his Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD).

He was overly sensitive to sensory input, including touch. In this room, only his parents knew about his disorder.

Bucky smiled and gently pushed Victoria's hand away from him. He could only tolerate it for five minutes. But it seemed this woman didn't understand him.

If she were just another woman, Bucky would have instructed his assistant to escort Victoria away. But he couldn't do that.

Because this woman was necessary, in fact. Her family's money was crucial. This was a business marriage. Bucky wasn't a social man, so when his family arranged the marriage, he complied with their wishes.

He thought he could go along with it, but his disorder acted up every time he got close to Victoria. She was glued to him.

"Fuck," he thought. He wished his parents had chosen a woman who preferred shopping over clinging to him.

"Look at this couple. Hohoho… Like newlyweds," remarked Victoria's mother, Genevieve, a woman around 50 years old, exuding opulence in her elegant gown adorned with intricate lace and jewels.

"What a joyful day," nodded Bucky's mother, Juliana, a woman of similar age, dressed in a modest yet tasteful attire, her eyes fixed on her son who appeared calm. However, she couldn't help but notice Victoria's persistent touching.

She prayed that Bucky wouldn't lose his patience.

"By the way, where is the oldest daughter?" slipped one of the guests, causing a ripple of unease among the attendees.

Even Victoria lost interest in getting close to Bucky. She stopped leaning toward him and sat up straight.

Her silent expression mirrored Genevieve's, catching Bucky's attention.

This was the first Bucky had heard of another daughter.

“You have an older sister?” Bucky asked Victoria.

Victoria responded with a nervous voice, “I do... She's... how should I say this? She's complicated. She's never at home. And when she is, all we do is fight.”

Bucky nodded, understanding her explanation. An estranged sister.

But he had never come across any mention of this in his fiancée's family background.

Were they hiding their other daughter? An illegitimate child?

Bucky noticed Victoria's father, Jonathan, a distinguished man in his sixties, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, who had stopped drinking and focused his attention on the table.

Genevieve laughed elegantly and remarked, “Haha… She doesn't enjoy these kinds of events. She prefers outdoor activities.”

On the first day of their engagement, Bucky found himself embroiled in family drama.

Then, a voice from outside could be heard, “I'm sorry, miss. This room has been booked,” said the security.

“It's booked for Sinclair and Barnes, right? What a coincidence. I'm a Sinclair too,” a playful female voice retorted.

‘BANG.’

The private door burst open from a forceful kick, startling the guests.

All eyes turned toward the newcomer.

Even Bucky turned around to see who it was.

She was wearing black leather boots, black pants, and a gray turtleneck sweater. Her attire stood out starkly against the elegance of the room.

She looked at everyone, then stopped at Victoria and Bucky. Then she scoffed, causing Victoria to clench her fist and bite her lips.

Compares to Bucky. He wondered what had happened to her. She was wearing a hand cast, a band-aid under her right eye, and small new scars under her lips.

Two things he realized were that her demeanor and facial features were different from Victoria's.

Victoria nervously laughed, "We thought you wouldn't come."

💋💋💋

You smirked and grabbed a glass of wine from the server who was serving drinks.

With a bow, you said, “Congrats on the engagement. Pardon my lateness. Seems like a rat ate your invitation.”

Victoria forced a smile, determined not to take the bait, especially in front of her fiancé, Bucky, to avoid any confrontation.

You walked past the couple and headed towards your father, Jonathan.

He showed no reaction, simply sipping his wine.

Standing beside him, you didn't even glance at Genevieve, who gritted her teeth, continuing to smile at the Barnes family.

You said to your dad, “Is this what your wife asked for? I must say I'm impressed.”

Bucky was taken aback when he heard that. What did it mean?

Genevieve gripped her wine glass tightly. The stories of her as ‘the other woman’ were in the past. She had worked hard to be accepted in this socialite world, and it had made everyone forget that she was the second wife. Everyone had called her Madam Sinclair, and Victoria the only daughter.

You shrugged your shoulders. “I'm just impressed that my sister could join the Barnes household. She didn't have to steal someone's husband like her mom.”

Victoria gasped and started sobbing.

Genevieve exclaimed, “How could you make your sister cry?”

You drank the wine in one gulp and put the empty glass on the table. “I want to vomit when I call her my sister. I need that wine to clean my tongue.”

Genevieve looked at her husband and whispered, “Jonathan, stop your daughter.”

You looked at your father, who was also looking at you, both of you silent. This is the relationship between father and daughter. Both of you used to be close, but everything changed after the other woman entered the family.

He won't say anything. He never does.

Turning to the new couple, you observed Victoria drinking water and her fiancé Bucky.

You didn't know much about him. What an unlucky man, you thought.

Walking towards him, you stopped in front of Bucky.

Bucky was looking at you too.

You said, “She throws away everything that I own or touch. I wonder…”

Your fingers touched his chin, and your face came close to his. You could see his eyes clearly.

You smirked and said, “I wonder if she still wants you after I do this.”

What you did next made everyone gasp.

Victoria screamed, “Get your lips away from him,” as she pushed you away from Bucky, acting as a barrier.

You wiped your lips, achieving your goal of seeing Victoria panicked.

With a salute gesture, you said, “I've got what I wanted. Goodbye, everyone,” and left the party.

Victoria grumbled, looking at Bucky and touching his hand. “Are you okay? I'm sorry. If you're mad at my sister, I apologize.”

Bucky pushed her away from him, his action shocking her slightly, but understandable since he had just been kissed by a stranger.

Bucky remained silent, not because he was angry, but because he had a million questions.

His disorder prevented him from being touched by someone, and yet he had just been kissed.

This is also his first kiss.

And... he didn't vomit.

Bucky looked at the closing door, wondering where you had gone.

He knew he had to see you again.

Author Note: Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account.

Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating.

Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

Thanks a bunch for being fabulous followers!

[the-offside-rule]

Max Verstappen (Red Bull Racing) - Protective

Requested: yes

Prompt: 33) "Hands off"

Warnings: angst, bit of a weirdo

The media event was buzzing with excitement, cameras flashing, and celebrities mingling. Max, the rising star, navigated through the crowd with his media person, Y/n, by his side. Y/n kept a watchful eye on him, ensuring he fulfilled his duties while also enjoying himself.

As they strolled through the venue, a representative from one of the sponsors approached them. He was slick and confident, his charm oozing as he wrapped an arm around Y/n's waist. Max's expression darkened as he witnessed the unwelcome advance. His whole demeanor had changed. His charming smile had suddenly dropped, he stopped sipping from his drink and he eyed Y/n, looking for any signs of discomfort. "Hey there, sweetheart." The representative said, his hand sliding down Y/n's back. She smiled uncomfortably, hoping he would just just away quickly but he simply did not. Max's jaw clenched, his protective instincts kicking in. "Hands off." He commanded, stepping forward to intervene. "Excuse me?"

Y/n's eyes widened in surprise at Max's sudden assertiveness. "I said hands off. She's my PR manager, not whatever you think she is so let her go." The representative chuckled, but Max's steely gaze didn't waver. "Come on, man, just having a little fun." He said dismissively.

Max reached out to grab Y/n's arm as he pulled her away from the unwanted attention. "Come on, we'll talk to other people." Max said as they walked away. Once they were out of earshot, Y/n let out a relieved sigh. "Thanks, Max. That was...unexpected." She said. She expected him to let go of her but he didn't. He instead took her hand in his and navigated his way towards a drinks table instead. "No one does that to you." Max replied, his voice firm with determination. "I can't believe some people nowadays." Y/n chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "Are you jealous, Max?" Max paused, his expression unreadable for a moment. "You were jealous!" She gasped. "No, I'm not jealous." He finally said. "I'm protective. There's a difference."

Y/n studied him, sensing there was more to his words than met the eye. "Okay, Mr. Protective." she teased, nudging him playfully. "Let's get back to enjoying the event." He rolled his eyes. "I'm not- how are you- you're so annoying." Je managed to get out. "Yeah, yeah. You keep telling yourself that."

They continued their stroll, engaging in light-hearted banter as they mingled with other attendees. But despite the jovial atmosphere, a tension lingered between them. As the event came to a close, Max walked Y/n to her car. They exchanged goodbyes, but just as Y/n was about to drive away, Max hesitated.

"Y/n, wait!" He called out, leaning against her car door. "There's something I need to tell you." Y/n's heart skipped a beat as she waited for him to continue. But before Max could say anything else, a group of fans approached, asking for autographs and selfies. "Oh, maybe I should get in the car and discuss this-" He was cut off by Y/n rolling her window up and giving an oh-so-innocent smile. "Have fun, Max!" She grinned as she drove off, leaving Max basically stranded eith the fleeting hoards of fans and nothing but a single bodyguard protecting him in the meantime. Max plastered on a smile, obliging the fans' requests, but the moment was lost. Y/n drove off with a sense of unease, wondering what Max had wanted to say.

[ransomnote]

crossposting from my instagram. text and link to original article under the cut.

in response to a tweet from SYSCAbout (shit you should care about) saying "hi just letting you know it's now illegal to protest in Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas. this is not good 0_0" referencing the article linked here.

clarifying because i read the article: it is still legal, but it is no longer safe, specifically to ORGANIZE a protest. the 5th circuit court ruled that if any one attendee of a protest does something illegal (even something arbitrary as throwing stones, as was the cause for the case), the organizer (s) of said protest could face legal and financial ruin. this is still horrific and a threat to the livelihood of so many people, but for the love of god do not stop protesting for one minute. to only protest when it's safe (or legal) is no protest at all. free palestine and hands off iran 🇵🇸🇮🇷.

and frankly, shame on you SYSCAbout, for blatantly fearmongering. how many people are going to read this and assume if they show up to a protest, they will be arrested no matter what? how many people is your wording going to stop from mobilizing? oh but did you get your clicks? did you get your engagement? shame.

continue to mobilize, continue to organize, but do not do it under your personal social media account, legal name, or attached to your visage. if you weren't already (why???), mask up at protests and cover any tattoos/peircings/dyed hair. carry no identification if you are able. if the state governments think the people, the angry, fed up, those fighting for their own right to exist, the people who have been subjected to the conditions for marginalized people in these states, are going to roll over and take it, they are dead wrong. if they think giving those same people nothing to lose is going to stop them, they have another thing coming.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Just Friends: How It Began

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

masterlist

Summary: You make a new friend.

It's giving

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

There’s more people than you expect. The book club is more of a book crowd. Not exactly what was advertised online. Instead of a circle of only about ten people, there are tables set around the room to seat as man. Each. 

“Find your name tag,” the woman at the table near the entrance explains, “and your table. Everyone has a number.” 

You thank her and find your name tag, sticking it onto your cardigan, right below your collar. You clutch your copy of The Good Earth. It’s well worn. A used copy you found on a thrift shop shelf. You search the room, lost as you take in the other listless faces. 

You check the list of names and find your table number. This isn’t what you were hoping for. You want to make friends. Everyone here is older than you. Noticeably so. And there’s so many. It’s going to be so loud, you won’t be able to focus. You doubt you’ll make any sort of real connection. 

You think of leaving but you’ve come this far. Besides, there’s a spot waiting for you. You find your seat at Table 12 and swing your feet nervously. You tap your fingers on the cover of your book and smile as a pair of white-haired ladies sit down across from you. They don’t acknowledge you as they chatter. You sit back, disappointed. 

Other tables are a little livelier. Several attendees sit at the next table and garble loudly on. It seems like they’re already talking about Pearl S. Buck’s narrative from what you can make out. An older man sits down and you try to think of how to greet him. Oh, no, he seems to know those ladies. All three of them block you out as they ignore your tiny wave. 

“Twelve,” the deep voice gristles over you. The chair next to you scrapes out. An even more worn novel lands on the table next to yours. The man sits. “This everyone?” 

He looks around and you do too. 

“There’s a few more seats,” you say as trace your finger over the spine of the book. You turn to him and pause. He’s familiar. Do you know him? “Um, hi...” You introduce yourself, trying not to cringe.  

He’s younger than the others but still older than you. The silver strands threaded into his dark hair and patched along the edge of his jaw suggest at least a full decade, likely more. You offer your hand stiffly, not sure why you do. You’re not one for shaking hands. He accepts the gesture and your lashes flick in surprise. His fingers are... metal? 

“Bucky Barnes?” You blurt out as he squeezes your hand firmly. 

He drops his chin as if he was hoping to stay covert, “uh, yeah. You beat me to it.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you retract your hand and slap your cheek, “I didn’t mean to. I only... I thought you looked... familiar and then I worried I forgot you from somewhere. But you’re too old to have been in my classes. But I mean... not too old. We had lots of mature students. Mature... just students. Age isn’t... well...” 

He chuckles, “don’t worry about it. More than a century in, I can handle being called old.” 

“I wasn’t-- I didn’t mean... that,” you shake your head. “I’m sorry.” 

“Really, it’s fine. It’s... cute,” he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. Another duo sits down and make no effort to engage beyond their pairing. He sighs and looks around. “Not very social for a social club.” 

“Mm, no, but maybe once we get started...” you shrug. 

“Maybe,” he sits back and drops his hands onto his lap. “You... don’t have somewhere less... geriatric to be?” 

“Oh, um, well, you know, I have some friends but they only want to go drinking and I get all bubbly in my stummy—stomach, when I drink. So, yeah. I thought maybe I could meet a few tamer friends here.” 

“Huh, well, I assure you, the old ones really aren’t that much different,” he scoffs. “And I get it. Alcohol doesn’t do much for me. Don't like the taste either. It’s all people ever wanna do. Always ‘let’s go for drinks’.” 

You nod. 

“Besides,” he continues, “don’t feel like hanging out with a bunch of dudes who can only talk about fighting the next bad guy. I need a friend who isn’t enhanced or magical.” 

“Right, that sounds...” 

“I know. I'm a grumpy old man complaining about saving the world,” he snorts. “Sorry, I just—I'm like you. Wanna expand outside my circle.” 

“Yeah, makes sense,” you agree. “Looks like you’ve read that a few times.” 

You point to his copy and he peers down. His blue eyes find you again, “first edition. Read it before I shipped off. My sister Rebecca still had it when she passed... she left it behind. It was just sitting in a storage unit.” 

“Oh wow, I... yeah, er--” 

“See, the whole friends thing... tough when there’s only one other guy in the city the same age as you,” he says. 

“It’s nice of her to hold onto it for you,” you finally get your thoughts in line. 

“Yeah, she was nice,” he agrees. “My best friend, but don’t tell Steve I said so.” 

A man sits on your other side and jars you from the plucking of heart strings. He’s balding and thin. “Hi,” you turn to him and give your name, “nice to meet you.” 

He glances at you, “Didn’t know this was open to kids.” 

“Kids?” You echo. You’re well into adulthood. Almost twenty-five. 

“Lay off, she’s being friendly,” Bucky leans over. “It’s a club. We’re supposed to talk about the book.” 

“Yeah, I'm sure she has great insight into the battle between wealth and tradition.” 

Your eyes round. You crane to see around you. You really are the youngest person in the room. You should have known. 

“I’d love to learn,” you say and the man harrumphs. 

Bucky growls, “you sure act like a jackass for putting on airs. She’s being polite.” 

The man sneers, “some idea for a date, boy.” 

“I’m not--” Bucky puts his metal hand on the table, between your books, balling it to a fist as the man gapes. 

“I--” the man begins. 

“Save it,” Bucky says. “Think you may have missed a few themes... you know, about women and oppression.” He drags his hand from the table. “Hey,” he nudges you softly. You almost can’t believe he can be so gentle with the metal limb, “how about we get outta here? They’re showing It Happened One Night just a few blocks down at the old cinema.” 

“Yes! I know. It’s one of my favourites. I was going to go but everyone said it was boring and I didn’t wanna go alone.” You chirp, shying away from your own rambling. 

“Same. So, how about it. Wanna make me look normal?” 

You laugh, “sure. I love popcorn.” 

“Alright, I might save you a few milk duds,” he stands and you do the same. 

You think you’ve made a friend after all. 

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Ian Millhiser at Vox:

The Supreme Court announced on Monday that it will not hear Mckesson v. Doe. The decision not to hear Mckesson leaves in place a lower court decision that effectively eliminated the right to organize a mass protest in the states of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Texas. Under that lower court decision, a protest organizer faces potentially ruinous financial consequences if a single attendee at a mass protest commits an illegal act.

It is possible that this outcome will be temporary. The Court did not embrace the United States Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit’s decision attacking the First Amendment right to protest, but it did not reverse it either. That means that, at least for now, the Fifth Circuit’s decision is the law in much of the American South. For the past several years, the Fifth Circuit has engaged in a crusade against DeRay Mckesson, a prominent figure within the Black Lives Matter movement who organized a protest near a Baton Rouge police station in 2016. The facts of the Mckesson case are, unfortunately, quite tragic. Mckesson helped organize the Baton Rouge protest following the fatal police shooting of Alton Sterling. During that protest, an unknown individual threw a rock or similar object at a police officer, the plaintiff in the Mckesson case who is identified only as “Officer John Doe.” Sadly, the officer was struck in the face and, according to one court, suffered “injuries to his teeth, jaw, brain, and head.”

Everyone agrees that this rock was not thrown by Mckesson, however. And the Supreme Court held in NAACP v. Claiborne Hardware (1982) that protest leaders cannot be held liable for the violent actions of a protest participant, absent unusual circumstances that are not present in the Mckesson case — such as if Mckesson had “authorized, directed, or ratified” the decision to throw the rock. Indeed, as Justice Sonia Sotomayor points out in a brief opinion accompanying the Court’s decision not to hear Mckesson, the Court recently reaffirmed the strong First Amendment protections enjoyed by people like Mckesson in Counterman v. Colorado (2023). That decision held that the First Amendment “precludes punishment” for inciting violent action “unless the speaker’s words were ‘intended’ (not just likely) to produce imminent disorder.”

The reason Claiborne protects protest organizers should be obvious. No one who organizes a mass event attended by thousands of people can possibly control the actions of all those attendees, regardless of whether the event is a political protest, a music concert, or the Super Bowl. So, if protest organizers can be sanctioned for the illegal action of any protest attendee, no one in their right mind would ever organize a political protest again. Indeed, as Fifth Circuit Judge Don Willett, who dissented from his court’s Mckesson decision, warned in one of his dissents, his court’s decision would make protest organizers liable for “the unlawful acts of counter-protesters and agitators.” So, under the Fifth Circuit’s rule, a Ku Klux Klansman could sabotage the Black Lives Matter movement simply by showing up at its protests and throwing stones.

The Fifth Circuit’s Mckesson decision is obviously wrong

Like Mckesson, Claiborne involved a racial justice protest that included some violent participants. In the mid-1960s, the NAACP launched a boycott of white merchants in Claiborne County, Mississippi. At least according to the state supreme court, some participants in this boycott “engaged in acts of physical force and violence against the persons and property of certain customers and prospective customers” of these white businesses. Indeed, one of the organizers of this boycott did far more to encourage violence than Mckesson is accused of in his case. Charles Evers, a local NAACP leader, allegedly said in a speech to boycott supporters that “if we catch any of you going in any of them racist stores, we’re gonna break your damn neck.”

With SCOTUS refusing to take up McKesson v. Doe, the 5th Circuit's insane anti-1st Amendment ruling that effectively bans mass protests remains in force for the 3 states covered in the 5th: Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi.

[labyrinth-of-her-heart]

braaainnnn vomit because i am dying from growing pains, some ideas go to this one lady i saw on youtube shorts (ty queen) FEM READER, pink is reader thoughts wrote this at 3 in der morning forgive me

thinking about subtle sarcastic reader, especially to the type of man she'd encounter while working in the army. being a civilian and a woman many on base just looked over her, or looked too intensely at certain parts of her. but after months of working she's found her place, she's now respected by those who surround her. but what happens when some higher ups come and visit?

working closely with the 141 was no easy task. going from mundane paperwork to the flurry of movement from a mission was difficult for you to handle, let alone helping them. you'd grown closer to them though, no more bouts of shyness stopping you from being yourself. instead you'd grown in to steady workplace banter with all.

unfortunately today couldn't be one of those days as some ever so important higher ups were holding a meeting with the 141, and since you handle the majority of the paperwork you were so graciously invited to attend. you wished you had a little bit more time to prepare for this. these were important people, who wouldn't be nervous? apart from soap who appeared with a shit-eating grin at your office door, gifting you another surprise meeting. or gaz who could charm any conversation his way a bit too easily, with suave compliments and easy-going humour. don't forget ghost who doesn't even need to look engaged because of his mask, or be expected to speak due to his... unique personality. oh and the captain has been to countless of these meetings, so he can't empathise with you either.

but, one thing you could all agree on is that meetings were incredibly boring. for two reasons mostly. either the attendees were so dense it seemed they hadn't stepped on planet earth before, let alone a military base. or the subject matter was so bland you all wondered why there needed to be a meeting in the first place.

as your heels tapped hastily along the hallway you wondered which it would rather be. arriving barely on time with a tight clutch on haphazardly organised documents and a cup of coffee you opened the door, and had an inkling it wouldn't be any. you were met with two male voices. one high, clipped and plummy, the other harsh and american.

" -- that's what i expected from someone of her- oh hello! nice to finally meet you" the man at the head of the table said. an older, short and stout man with thin wire-rimmed glasses and a black tailored suit. a typical english man in an authoritative position. "ah, sorry i was late you'll have to excuse me. i thought to bring my extra notes, i hope i didn't make you wait long." you replied. "not at all, my colleague mr sullivan and i were discussing stories from our base". your gaze flicked over to what must be the source of the american voice. perfectly gold hair stuck down with copious amounts of gel, paired with lightly tanned skin and a too white smile didn't make it hard to guess. "civilians eh?" the taller man began "don't know what's up with the ones here, especially the woman we were just talki-"

"right" prices deep gravely voice cut over the grating one "we should start the meeting now we're all here". murmurs of agreement filled the room, and so did glances between the 141 that you didn't pick upon. however you did notice they were unusually quiet though you brushed it off, they were probably tired. "gosh where are my manners" the man at the head of the table exclaimed "my name is mr buckton and i'll be leading this meeting." briskly taking a few steps towards you he shook your hand roughly. being polite you attempted to make eye contact, yet his eyes were still looking straight ahead? lingering only on your chest for a moment he then made eye contact with you, a wide grin plastered on his face. "come, your seat is next to mine" he prompted, gesturing you to walk infront of him and take your seat. as you walked infront of him his eyes now travelled further south. a small grimace shared from gaz to soap went undetected by the three sitting at the top of the table. mr buckton at the head, you to his left and then the captain and ghost next to you. opposite was mr sullivan, with gaz then soap next to him. with you all seated the meeting began.

for once the meeting was actually worth being held. despite it not being anything too serious you did well, even with your nerves. you answered questions and expanded in the points of others. as you suggested plans of action mr buckton steadily kept his eyes on you, while mr sullivan constantly scribbled notes down. soon enough the meeting was a breeze. well for about ten minutes. across from you, mr sullivan was very inquisitive about anything you said. asking you to back it up or to show proof. not thinking much of it you obliged. it was a little odd but you knew your stuff and why not show off infront of higher ups? however the sentiment was not shared with the rest of the 141. who even asked for evidence about evidence? they understood wanting clarification on certain things, but it was growing incessant now. you were capable of your job and they knew that - that's why you were there. price especially helped you in the growing awkwardness; his job had never been so easy with you working underneath him. gaz and soap constantly gave eachother questioning glances, not wanting to explicitly speak up if their captain didn't. ghost was pissed he couldn't hide his eyes rolling as well as his scowl behind his balaclava. although they were growing increasingly annoyed the meeting continued, with more ridiculous questions being asked. professionalism was continued with a grim expression for another twenty minutes or so. hardly.

until mr sullivan basically dislocated his back by stretching in his chair with an exaggerated yawn leaving his cavernous mouth. "thought you woulda brought coffee since you kept us waiting for so long, cant believe you didn't make me some fresh". with beady eyes on you he smiled lazily. oh he has to be joking you thought to yourself there's no way this guy is real. play them at their own game. "why would i make more coffee? i've already made some for myself" you smiled sickly back at him back, one that gaz has used on you many times when he's late giving you a report.

the table fell unusually silent again, and that's when you noticed it. the crackling of unease filling the air. sharp eyes from the 141 darted from eachother to you, to mr sullivan and back again. "don't be so mean, i'm literally a dying man" he snarkily replied, eyeing you coolly. "i have urgent needs that need to be taken care of, won't you help?". you felt your cheeks warm at his badly hidden innuendo. he smirked at this, finally affecting you after bugging you the whole bloody meeting. fuck impressing him he's an arsehole.

"well, i'm sure you'll be alright by yourself again. seems it happens a lot." you said back, indifferent. as soon as that left your mouth a strange sharp bark that hastily turned in to a cough came from soap. all heads from the table whipped to look at him. "pardon me" he shakily said with an awfully contained smile. taking a sip of his drink his watery eyes didn't stray from the blank wall above ghosts head.

"let's get back on track hmm?" mr buckton suggested "so cheeky, must be that time of the month". he turned to you with an eyebrow raised with an impish grin.

what. what the actual fuck.

price coughed uncomfortably and turned away. gaz and ghost looked at eachother in disbelief. and soap was finding that wall even more interesting. surely it could not get any worse

"oh you all know what women are like, don't pretend. especially when they're frustrated" mr buckton let out a giggle "you know from work".

you actually spluttered, eyes wide with disbelief. the feeling of unease in the air was now a full crackle of electricity. just as you felt price boiling with anger you grabbed me bucktons hand. if everyone on the table wasn't watching you, they certainly were now

"tell me" you said. mr buckton looked at you shocked, mouth gaping open. "tell me what women are like. you know i've been so airheaded this last week i hardly know my left from my right!". just to amp it up a little you slowly crossed your arms just underneath your chest, accentuating it. "you've explained so much to me this meeting surely you could explain this?"

the 141's eyes grew to the size of saucers, there's no way these two would actually fall for this? right? how are you getting away with this, they thought. at this point mr bucktons and mr sullivans jaws were practically falling off. the latter was sadly the quickest to start talking 'so, when women start-". a smart rap in the door interrupted. a male voice said seriously "emergency call for you mr buckton".

"oh, oh you must excuse us. i have to end this meeting" mr buckton declared "i simply cant miss this". messily shuffling their papers together both men swiftly said their goodbyes to you all. with that they just about made it out the door without tripping over their own legs.

a second passed after the door banged shut before gaz burst out in howls of laughter, clutching his ribs, soon joined by soap who could barely look at the wall for any longer. ghost stared at the door muttering who knows what under his breath and the captain sat there with his gaze fixated on the table mortified. he turned his head to you apologising profusely and asking if you're okay.

you just nodded vaguely and replied "men"

all likes, reblogs and comments are so appreciated!! this is my first time writing something properly so i hope you enjoyed it

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Toto Wolff with wife. She accompanied him to the award event (idm what is it). Whenever his gaze landed on her, he was just having lovey dovey eyes and couldn't seem to tear it away. She was the same as him. Proud of his achievements. Everyone could see that. Up to you. Fluff and maybe suggestive. Thanks!! :))

Hii guys, I hope you enjoy this request :)

As the doors of the lavish ballroom swing open, you find yourself momentarily overwhelmed by the grandeur of the FIA’s annual award ceremony. Crystal chandeliers hang like glittering constellations from the high ceilings, and the walls are adorned with rich tapestries and golden accents. Soft music plays in the background, mingling with the hum of excited conversation and the occasional clink of champagne flutes. It's a world of luxury and elegance, and yet every year, you feel a sense of wonder stepping into this magical evening.

Toto squeezes your hand gently, drawing your attention back to him. His eyes, filled with warmth and a hint of mischief, sparkle under the dimmed lights. “Look, mein Liebling,” he says, his voice a deep, soothing rumble that you can’t get enough of. “George and Carmen are over there. Let’s go and say hi.”

You nod, smiling, and allow him to guide you through the crowd. He moves with a confidence that draws the eye, effortlessly navigating the sea of glamorous attendees. You catch sight of George and Carmen near a grand piano, both looking elegant and happy. George is dashing in his tuxedo, his bright smile reflecting his successful season, while Carmen is stunning in a flowing emerald gown that compliments her radiant features.

As you approach, Carmen spots you first and waves, her face lighting up with delight. "Hey, you two!" she calls out, pulling you into a warm hug. George follows suit, shaking Toto’s hand enthusiastically.

“It’s so good to see you both,” you say, returning Carmen’s hug. “You look amazing, Carmen. And George, congratulations on your incredible season. You’ve really made a mark!”

“Thanks!” George grins, his cheeks flushing slightly with modesty. “It’s been a great year, and I couldn’t have done it without all the support from Carmen and the team. And speaking of amazing, look at you two! Always the power couple, aren’t you?”

Toto laughs, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you closer to him. “We just try to keep up with the younger ones,” he teases, casting you a loving glance that sends a flutter through your heart.

Just as you’re about to reply, a well-dressed official from the FIA approaches, his expression politely urgent. “Excuse me, Mr. Wolff,�� he interjects, “we need you for a moment to discuss the agenda for tonight’s ceremony.”

Toto nods, his eyes still locked on yours. “Of course,” he says. Then, without hesitation, he leans down and presses a tender kiss to your lips, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes lightly across your cheek. “I’ll be right back, mein Schatz.”

You watch him go, unable to tear your gaze away as he moves through the crowd with that characteristic grace. Even as he engages in a serious conversation with the FIA official, his eyes flick back to you every few moments, a silent promise in his gaze.

George chuckles, noticing the exchange. “You two,” he says, shaking his head in amusement. “Honestly, it’s like watching a romantic movie. You’re so obviously in love, it’s adorable.”

Carmen nods in agreement, her smile soft and genuine. “It’s true. The way you look at each other, it’s like nothing else matters. It’s really beautiful to see.”

You feel your cheeks warm, a shy smile playing on your lips. “Thank you,” you say softly. “I guess when you’ve found the right person, everything else just fades away.”

Carmen squeezes your arm affectionately. “We’re all lucky to have found that, aren’t we?”

Just then, you notice Toto making his way back to you, his conversation with the FIA official apparently finished. As he approaches, his eyes never leave yours, and you feel a magnetic pull drawing you to him.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs when he reaches you, his arm immediately sliding around your waist again. “Didn’t mean to leave you for too long.”

You lean into him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. “It’s alright. You’re here now.”

He smiles down at you, his expression soft and full of affection. “Always.”

George and Carmen exchange a knowing glance, their smiles widening. “And there it is again,” George laughs. “Completely head over heels.”

Toto just chuckles, his gaze still fixed on you. “Guilty as charged,” he admits, his voice low and playful. “But can you blame me?”

You laugh, your heart swelling with love for this man who has captured every part of you. “No, I can’t. Because I feel the same way.”

As the lights dim slightly, signaling that the ceremony is about to begin, Toto gently guides you to your seats. You settle in beside him, his hand finding yours once more under the table. As the host takes the stage and the room quiets down, you lean in close, whispering in his ear.

“I’m so glad we’re here together.”

He turns his head, his lips brushing your temple as he murmurs back, “So am I, mein Liebling. So am I.”

The ceremony starts, but all you can think about is how lucky you are to have him by your side, and how, in moments like this, the rest of the world seems to fade away.

[poisonlove]

so I have a request! Jenna x fem.reader, these two are long time best friends, reader knows that she is in love with jenna and for a distraction she start to date e boy. jenna are really jealous and then I need angst, drama but a happy ending mit fluff!

FRIENDS

Pairing: Jenna Ortega X Fem!reader

Status: request

Warning: fluff

Jenna and I had been friends forever.

A friendship that seemed destined to last forever, full of laughter, adventures, and confidences. We knew everything about each other and complemented each other in ways that no one else could understand.

But lately, the way I looked at Jenna had changed.

I noticed that my heart raced faster when she laughed at my jokes, and my stomach filled with butterflies every time our eyes met. My feelings for her had become deeper, more complex, more romantic.

However, I had never found the courage to tell her.

The fear of ruining our friendship, of losing her, held me back every time I tried to speak.

My distraction began when I started dating Luca.

He was kind, caring, and made me feel special.

But he wasn't Jenna.

He could never be.

Despite Luca being a great guy, I often found myself thinking about how it would be if Jenna were holding my hand, smiling at me from across the table.

His laughter didn’t have the same effect, and his hugs didn’t bring the same comfort. Every date with Luca made me wish Jenna were in his place.

Jenna, on the other hand, seemed more and more distant, and it hurt.

And I especially didn't understand why.

At first, I thought it was just a period of stress or fatigue from work on the set, but over time, I noticed she avoided our meetings, found excuses not to go out with me, and, when she did, she was always distracted, lost in her thoughts.

I tried to talk to her, to understand what was happening, but she would smile and change the subject, reassuring me that everything was fine.

But I knew it wasn’t true.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes, trying to ease the fatigue. It was midnight and I had to finish a report I had neglected all week.

The papers scattered on the desk and the computer full of data reminded me that I had to get it done. As I tried to focus, my phone suddenly rang, interrupting the silence.I looked up from the screen, surprised by the late-night call.

With a distracted movement, I picked up the phone and saw that it was Emma calling me.

“Hey, Emma?” I answered, trying to hide my exhaustion. “Do you need something?”

The background music was so loud that I had difficulty hearing Emma’s voice.

“You need to come here,” she murmured, worried. “Jenna is beside herself. She’s drunk too much and I’m afraid she might go into alcohol poisoning.”

My heart began to race.

“Where are you?” I asked, searching for my car keys on the desk.

“At George’s house,” Emma replied, distressed.

“I’ll see you there in five minutes,” I said, ending the call.

I arrived at George's house and the party was in full swing.

The deafening music, pumped out by a DJ in the corner of the living room, made the walls and floor vibrate. The crowd was dense and animated, boys and girls dancing closely together, lost in the powerful bass and captivating melodies. The air was thick with the pungent smell of smoke and the sweet aroma of alcohol, with clouds of vapor mixing above the heads of the attendees.

In the middle of the room, a beer pong table was surrounded by excited spectators who cheered and encouraged the players, laughter and shouts filling the air. On a sofa, a group of friends was engaged in animated conversations, while some exchanged passionate kisses in various corners of the room.

My attention was focused on finding Emma.

I caught sight of her near the kitchen, with a look of frustration and worry on her face. I made my way through the crowd, gently pushing to clear a path, until I reached her.

"You're finally here!" Emma exclaimed over the noise, pulling me towards her.

"Jenna won't listen to anyone."

"Where is she?" I asked, scanning the direction Emma indicated.

"In the kitchen," Emma said, grabbing my wrist and leading me through the chaos.

The kitchen was somewhat quieter than the rest of the house, though the music was still audible in the background. I saw Jenna sitting on a table, with a half-empty bottle of vodka next to her. Her head was resting on her arm, and her face clearly showed the signs of a night of excess.

"Jenna," I said, kneeling beside her.

"What are you doing?"

Jenna slowly lifted her gaze, her eyes hazy and confused.

She looked at me with a silly smile before recognizing me. "Is it you?" she slurred, reaching out a hand towards me.I felt myself blush under her touch but tried to remain calm.

"Yes, I came to get you," I said in a steady voice, even though my heart was pounding.

Jenna's smile quickly faded, and she tried to get up from the table, swaying.

"Why aren't you with Luca? He's perfect, right?" she said with a hint of bitterness in her voice.

I bit my lower lip, trying to stay calm.

"Jenna, don't do this."

She grabbed the vodka bottle angrily. "I don't care," she muttered. "Leave me alone."

I grabbed the bottle, taking it from her hands.

"Enough, Jenna. You can't keep going like this."

She stared at me, her anger turning into pain. "Why do you care so much?" she asked, her voice trembling.

I looked into her eyes, trying to convey all my sincerity.

"Because I can't stand to see you like this."

Jenna stared at me for a long moment, then she let herself lean against me. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Her arms wrapped around my waist.

I turned to Emma, seeking a solution. "Can we go upstairs?" I asked, hoping for a bit more privacy and calm.

Emma nodded quickly. "Sure, let's use the guest room. Follow me."

With difficulty, I supported Jenna as Emma led us up the stairs.

Each step was hard, Jenna swaying and struggling to maintain her balance. The noise of the party seemed to fade as we moved away from the chaos of the ground floor.

Finally, we reached the guest room.

It was a small, quiet room with soft lighting and a neatly made bed.

I gently laid Jenna down on the bed, trying to be as gentle as possible while she complained about her discomfort.

"Sss, it's going to be okay," I whispered, gently stroking her hair.

Jenna looked at me with glassy eyes, her iris almost completely obscured by her dilated pupils. Even though her gaze was clouded by alcohol, there was a depth of emotion that I couldn't ignore. I realized I was studying her features, captivated by a beauty that, even in that state, shone brightly. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her disheveled hair falling in disarray over her delicate features, and her full, plump lips seemed almost inviting.

Without meaning to, my gaze fell on her lips. I felt a sudden wave of warmth that made my cheeks flush and my heartbeat quicken. I tried to look away, the embarrassment growing inside me, but every time I attempted to shift my focus, I inevitably found myself drawn back to her.

"I'll get you an aspirin," I said awkwardly, trying to move away to regain control of my emotions.

But before I could get up from the bed, Jenna grabbed my hand, holding it tightly.

"No, don't go," she murmured, her eyes filled with an intensity I had never seen before."Jenna, you need to rest," I said softly, but she shook her head, gripping my hand even more tightly.

"I have to tell you something," she insisted, her voice slurred by alcohol but full of determination. "I... I love you, Y/N. I've always loved you. It hurts to see you with someone else."

My heart ached at her words, but the fact that she was so drunk made me doubt her sincerity.

"Jenna, you're drunk. You don’t know what you're saying."

Anger flashed in her eyes, and in an instant, Jenna grabbed the collar of my shirt, pulling me towards her.

"Don’t you dare tell me I don’t know what I’m saying," she hissed, her gaze burning with emotion. "I love you, Y/N/N. And I hate seeing you with Luca."

I was taken aback by the sudden clarity in her voice and the sharpness of her gaze, which starkly contrasted with her drunken state. There was no slurring or confusion; her words were firm and incisive, and the way she looked at me seemed laden with a truth I couldn't ignore.

My heart raced, and the intensity of her words caught me off guard.

I tried to respond, but the words seemed stuck in my throat, unable to find an appropriate answer to her confession. The atmosphere between us grew charged, while Jenna continued to look at me with unwavering, determined eyes.

She looked at me with fury and then, without warning, kissed me forcefully.

The kiss tasted of alcohol, a mix of vodka and desperation, and for a moment, I let myself be overwhelmed by the intensity of her emotions.

Her lips were warm and insistently pressed against mine.

Jenna started to increase the intensity, her hands trying to remove my shirt. I looked at her with wide eyes, my heart racing.

"Jenna, wait..." I tried to say, but her hands, feverish and impatient, didn’t stop.

Her determination and the heat of her touch made me uneasy.

I could feel my heart pounding, and my body wasn’t sure whether to reject her advance.

"I don’t know if I should..." I said, my voice trembling. "This isn’t the right time."

Jenna looked at me with intensity, the pain and passion in her eyes palpable.

"Don’t you understand how much I’ve thought about you?" she whispered, her voice laden with desperation. "I can’t bear to see you with someone else. You’re everything to me, Y/N."

Her glassy and penetrating gaze fixed on me with an unexpected clarity, as if every word was a fragment of raw truth that I couldn’t ignore. Her words intertwined with the depth of her look, creating a palpable tension that filled the air around us.

Despite the intensity of the moment, I still felt unsure.

"Jenna, I don’t know if I can do this..." I said, my voice trembling.

Confusion and uncertainty overwhelmed me, and the fear of making a mistake held me back.Sensing my conflict, Jenna moved closer slowly, her expression growing softer and more pleading.

"Please," she whispered, her hands still trembling as they caressed my face. "I don’t want to lose you. I only want you, Y/N."

The warmth of her hand on my skin and the sincerity in her voice began to melt my reservations. Her eyes, though clouded by alcohol, were filled with a truth I couldn’t ignore. I felt my heart quicken, my mind wrestling between reason and desire.

After a moment of hesitation, I moved closer to Jenna, my breath shortening as I tried to navigate between the confusion and the attraction I felt. The decision to give in to the moment became inevitable, and with my heart pounding, I moved towards her, preparing to confront the truth of my feelings.

Our lips touched initially with tenderness, as if it were a timid and uncertain exploration. But soon, the contact grew more intense, her lips pressing against mine with a gentle yet determined pressure, as if trying to convey everything she couldn’t express in words.

My hands move quickly, grabbing the edges of her dress and pulling it off with a decisive gesture. Jenna giggles, surprised and amused by my sudden gesture.

“So desperate,” she says, with a mischievous tone and a playful look, as I reach for her neck, kissing it fervently.

"But listen, five minutes ago you were begging me and now you're acting innocent?" I murmur shyly against her skin, Jenna's laughter soon replaced by moans of pleasure.

Jenna's hand moves closer to my neck, pulling me further towards her, increasing the intensity of the contact.

I stop kissing her neck and pull away slightly, looking at Jenna with sudden apprehension.

“You're sure, right?” I ask, my embarrassment evident.

Jenna smiles at me with an expression full of confidence and desire. “I've never been more confident,” she replies, her smile bright.