#d.c. pride

[acidic-dad]

[fleshfotomedia]

Sinners & Saints Bar , Washington DC

Feb 1st , 2025

Happy Birthday Michael 🏆

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

No easy job||Peter Sutherland x fem!reader

Summary— Peter swore up and down he’d never join the secret service but here he is as the body guard of the presidents daughter who loves to keep Peter on his toes .

Word count—644

Peter Sutherland prided himself on being calm under pressure. It was practically a job requirement. Whether it was racing against the clock to prevent a terrorist attack or navigating the bureaucratic chaos of Washington, D.C., he always kept a cool head.

Until now.

“Do you always ignore every rule ever written, or am I just lucky?” Peter asked, his voice taut as he followed Y/N into the crowd of gala attendees.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, smirking. “Rules are more like guidelines. You’ll get used to it.”

Peter exhaled sharply, gripping the earpiece in his hand before shoving it back into his ear. “I’m not supposed to get used to you wandering off without telling me.”

“I’m not wandering off. I’m mingling. Big difference,” she replied, plucking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. The glint of the chandelier above reflected in her glass as she tilted it toward him in mock cheers. “Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? Someone spills a drink on me?”

Peter scanned the room, his sharp eyes catching a suspicious figure lingering near the exit. The man adjusted his jacket, and Peter’s stomach tightened. He was already running through the possibilities—exit routes, potential threats, fallback plans. “The worst that could happen is someone targets you because your father is the president, and I’m left explaining why I let you stroll into danger like it’s a weekend hobby.”

She paused, turning to face him fully. Her expression softened just a fraction, though there was still a flicker of defiance in her gaze. “Peter, relax. I’ve done this a hundred times. No one’s going to target me in the middle of a charity gala. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Peter shot back, stepping closer. The faint buzz of conversation and laughter around them felt miles away. “You don’t get to be fine. You get to be safe. That’s the deal.”

Her smirk returned, this time tinged with challenge. “You’re kind of intense, you know that? Has anyone ever told you to loosen up?”

“Has anyone ever told you that ignoring protocol is a terrible idea?”

“Constantly.” She raised her glass again, but her fingers tightened around the stem. “Didn’t stick.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing, his eyes locked on hers. She had that maddening ability to act like nothing could touch her, like the world wasn’t full of people willing to exploit her trust and bravery. It wasn’t just frustrating—it was terrifying.

“You think I don’t see it?” he said finally, his voice softer but no less firm. “The way you brush everything off like it doesn’t matter? But it does, Y/N. You might think you’re invincible, but—”

“—I’m not,” she interrupted, her tone unusually serious. Her eyes flicked down, then back to his. “I know that, Peter. But I also can’t live my life hiding behind Secret Service agents every second of the day. It’s not who I am.”

Peter ran a hand through his hair, searching for the right words. Something about her recklessness struck too close to home—someone else he’d failed to protect, someone else who didn’t listen. He couldn’t let that happen again. “I’m not asking you to hide. I’m asking you to let me do my job without feeling like I need a defibrillator on standby every time you step into a room.”

Her lips twitched, the smirk threatening to return. “Are you saying I stress you out?”

“Yes,” he deadpanned.

She laughed, and the sound pulled a reluctant smile from him before it faded. “Good. Keeps you on your toes,” she said with a wink, and before he could reply, she slipped into the crowd again, disappearing like a shadow.

Peter groaned, pulling his earpiece into place. He scanned the room quickly, noting that the suspicious man near the exit had shifted positions again, and his unease grew. Protecting Y/N was going to be the death of him—he was sure of it.

[reidology13]

we could make it better (breaking every habit)

Spencer Reid x fem ex-famous!reader

Summary: After Spencer overcomes his addiction, he seeks out the company and forgiveness of an old flame. cw: talk of addiction, a little sad? mostly fluffy though a/n: technically a part 2 of my fic based off making the bed by olivia rodrigo, but it can definitely be read as a oneshot. maybe they are a bit unhealthy, but they're cute and that's all that matters. also this was so incredibly delayed cause my phone drowned so I'm posting this from my dad's computer

Part 1

They say time heals all wounds, and standing at the door of his past mistake, Spencer hoped it had healed hers the way it had his. It had taken him too long to find her, for his pride to break down enough to ask Garcia to search for her. A few years ago it would have been all too easy, a few years ago she was on the cover of every magazine. Now she was the public's favourite conspiracy theory, the biggest where did she go? post made on some website full of self important nobodies. 

Where did she go? A small house in a small town, a few hours from D.C, just close enough that Spencer had gotten in his car without a second thought the moment he had her address. Maybe it was a slight invasion of privacy, but Spencer had seen much more of her than the house she lived in.

As he lifted his fist to knock, doubt crept in for the first time since the beginning of his endeavour. Was he right to apologise, to show up at the doorstep of the person he hurt worse than anyone else in his life, and say sorry? Sorry. ‘Sorry’ was a puny word that could never hope to mean anything compared to what he had done, how he had used her. But it would have to do, because he had not come all that way to turn back at the flashing neon sign that said ‘CLOSURE’.

Knock, knock, knock. Was three knocks not enough? Knock. God four was too many and the last one had been so separate from the others it was clearly an afterthought that she would think was weird before she even knew it was him on the other side of-

“Spencer?” The door opened, just enough for her face to be visible through the small opening. She was so much more beautiful than he remembered, although he really didn’t remember much from back then. 

“I’m sorry.” Well that was one way to get to the point. He smacked himself internally, scolding himself for being so stupid and inconsiderate, not even saying hello or asking her how she was doing.

“Do you wanna come in? You look like you need to sit down.” She pulled the door open, stepping back to let him in, and Spencer froze. She was allowing him into her home, her space, he who had squeezed her dry, used her up and tossed her aside when he didn’t need her anymore.

Unsure what else to do, Spencer found himself sitting on her couch, the awkward tension between them palpable as he sat silently in regret of every decision he had made in the last week.

“So,” She prompted, gesturing vaguely in his direction, “How are you?”

“Good, yeah, better. You?” He looked around the room, trying to find something that would tell him anything about her life, about her. She was a stranger, really, a stranger that used to be someone he knew. He wanted to know who she was then, on that day, in her house sitting across from him.

“I’m good too. You look better.” He knew what she meant – he didn’t look high out of his mind. The far wall of the room was covered in framed pictures of her and what he assumed were her family and friends. Some were from her childhood, some were taken in front of the very house he was sitting in. 

What surprised Spencer were the photos, though few and far between, where he made an appearance. The Fourth of July party, a bright, sunny photo full of smiling faces. The poor quality of the picture did nothing to disguise the bags under his eyes, nor the dead look in hers. Her birthday, a photo of her blowing out the candles on her cake, blurred from his shaky grip on the camera.

“I don’t remember that one.” He pointed to a picture of the two of them, a dark photo that he nearly hadn’t recognised as himself. The ability to not remember had been his favourite thing back then, now the haze left him with a pit in his stomach.

“Makes sense, you were… you were bad. It was taken right near the end.” 

“I am sorry, really.” Neither of them spoke after that, the silence a warm blanket rather than a thick smog. The apology wrapped around them in a warm embrace, they did not choke on it.

She moved first, after what felt like the most peaceful eternity, slipping her hand around his, holding it in the space between them. He looked down at their joined hands, his gaze slowly drifting up until it landed on the soft smile spread across her face.

“I missed you.” She squeezed his hand gently, although it felt like she squeezed his heart instead, “I missed you from the moment I met you. It’s nice to get you back.”

“I missed you too.” He didn’t know how to explain the way it had taken him a month to get sober enough that reality hit and he realised what he’d lost. At least, he didn’t know how to explain it without having to actually say something about his addiction. He’d always been good at avoiding the topic, skirting around it with suggestions and subtle confirmations. The word ‘addiction’ made him feel weak, like he’d been defeated. He’d talked about his problem once, in a room full of people who had been through the same thing, and even then he hadn’t been able to say it. 

“You’re so strong, Spencer. You’ve come so far.” It was like she could read his mind, see every fear that haunted him and soothe it accordingly.

“So are you, I mean, you got out of everything.” His eyes dropped to his lap in shame of everything that he hadn’t noticed, all of the obvious signs of just how not okay she had been. All that she must have been going through, that he had been too far from reality to know existed, even when it was staring him in the face.

“You say that like you didn’t.” It was a simple sentiment, but maybe that was what hit him like a freight train. It wasn’t some mantra he’d heard hundreds of times, or a complicated conversation with his friends where they tried to talk to him without saying anything that actually mattered.

He got out of it.

“You’re perfect, you know that right?” The way he looked at her in that moment could only be described as reverential, she was the brightest star in a sky that he had never truly seen before.

“No I’m not.” The way she said it like a definite fact made Spencer’s heart start to crack, “Do you know why I have those pictures up?”

Spencer shook his head, “Tell me,” he said the words under his breath, as if they were surrounded by people in the empty room, “I’m not going to find you any less perfect.”

“Hope. I could never get the thought out of my head that you would come back.” She shook her head, gaze locked on the ground like she couldn’t bear to look at him as she spoke. “It was stupid, and then you actually did, and that’s stupid all over again.”

“You’re even more perfect than I thought.” Spencer laughed, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, happy and sad and something he couldn’t put a name to. She was still holding his hand, he realised, and he used that information to interlace their fingers, placing their joined hands in his spare palm.

“I’m stupid and lucky, that’s what I am.” She snorted, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“No, not stupid.” Spencer drew circles with his thumb on her palm as he spoke, “Lucky, maybe.” 

“We’re gonna have to talk about this, us, you know that.”

“Eventually, yes. Not right now.”

“Not right now.” She confirmed, nodding slowly. They were both there, and that would have to be enough, at least for the moment.

[avis-writeshq]

carriage six – spencer reid

summary: Spencer Reid prides himself in his routine. Wake up at half-past six. Leave his apartment at a quarter past seven. Get onto the seven thirty train. Arrive at Quantico at eight forty five. He has a plentiful of reasons as to why he does it; it’s efficient, it gets him to the office early, it works. But the biggest reason is the girl that always sits in the seat a few rows across from him, headphones on and always reading a book. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

genre: strangers to lovers, rated G for mutual pining and second hand embarrassment. no use of (Y/N).

warnings: fluff, boy band spencer reid (caution, hot!). i tried to write in Spencer’s pov, and with that comes a lot of rambling. i like to think that his mind is running 100 miles an hour, so i tried to write in a style that could implicate that <3

wc: 1.8k

part two: platform ten

Spencer tries not to look so excited when he enters the subway, clad in light grey slacks, a lavender dress shirt, a brown and purple argyle sweater vest and a mauve coloured tie. His signature leather bag is strapped across his chest and he has a light cardigan in his hand; the weather reports said it would be cold today. His head spins with the statistics on the accuracy of meteorology, considering the bright and sunny skies that blessed the citizens of D.C that morning. He’s donning a new haircut today as well. It was a lot shorter than he originally planned to get it, but he likes it. In fact, he likes it a lot, particularly the way it drapes across his forehead and the way it looks messy but still cool. That’s how he would describe it. Cool. He feels cool.

He hasn’t been able to get onto the subway for three days because of a case in Connecticut and his mind wanders. Will there be another case soon? How long would it take? He hopes it would be a local case. He feels guilty thinking that; he shouldn’t be hoping for a case at all. After all, that would only mean someone else has met their untimely death. He shakes his head to dismiss the thoughts. 

He steps onto the train, onto the sixth carriage, and sits on his usual seat. In his mind, it’s the perfect seat. It avoids the sun so he doesn’t need to squint and he doesn’t have to turn the brightness level of his phone all the way up. It’s right next to the door in case he needs to make a quick exit. It’s right next to a handicapped seat, meaning that people tended to avoid it. But the best thing about this seat was the view.

He cringes when he thinks of it. ‘View’ sounds gross. Perverted. ‘View’ is the wrong word to describe it. His favourite thing about this particular seat is the company. Yes, he likes the company, although it technically doesn’t exactly count as company. 

His gaze shifts to his company. Exactly four rows away, her eyes trained on the book in her hands. He recognises it to be ‘Pride and Prejudice’, the limited edition rose gold copy that was released eight months, three weeks and two days ago. He has the same copy sitting on his dresser. 

She looks different today. Granted, it had been three days since he last saw her. He scans her figure to try to place his finger on the difference and he realises. She’s wearing a new lipgloss. Spencer’s cheeks burn when he realises. Why on earth— no, how on earth is he able to tell? He feels himself cringe and he shifts his gaze and scans the rest of carriage in an attempt to busy himself and his mind, but his eyes ultimately fall back on his company.

Spencer can’t seem to take his eyes off of her. What’s she listening to? Where is she up to in her book? Does she like Austen? Has she read any other books by her? What does she think of Elizabeth and Darcy’s relationship? So many questions enter his mind and he wishes he had the guts to go over and strike up a conversation. But he’s not like Morgan. He doesn’t have that type of charisma or that type of confidence. If anything, he supposes, he’s self aware. He knows that the moment he starts a conversation, he would start rambling for twenty minutes about the relationship dynamics between the characters and why Austen was so incandescent and exceeded all beliefs as a writer in her world. He’d start to bring in authors like Virginia Woolf and why her admiration towards Jane Austen was warranted. Ultimately, Spencer thinks to himself as his eyes wander back to the girl, he’d scare her off.

He watches as she falters in her movements, her fingers pausing from flipping the page and Spencer frowns. From what he could tell, she was a little bit more than halfway through the book. Maybe up to page 260? But there’s nothing remotely difficult in that part of the book. If anything, that was the most simple and straightforward section of the entire text. And then he realises. His cheeks burn once more and he quickly busies himself with his phone, biting his lip and avoiding her amused gaze. Your amused gaze.

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips as you meet his gaze. You’ve seen him all the time, for the past three years in fact, when you first moved to D.C. He’s cute, really cute, and he’s even cuter when he looks like a deer caught in headlights. You raise a teasing eyebrow his way and you watch as he quickly avoids your gaze, looking into his phone. You can’t the soft laugh that leaves your lips, your fingers tracing against the pages of your book. Maybe you have a little more confidence in yourself than you thought.

***

The next day, Spencer feels a small sense of dread creeping into his heart. He feels embarrassed, so goddamn embarrassed, and he wonders how he could face you. His cheeks are burning and he tugs at his collar. He’s wearing a light blue shirt with a patterned purple tie, along with dark navy coloured pants. He teeters on his feet, waiting with anticipation for the train. The moment he enters the carriage, his eyes fall to the seat you would be seated at, only to see no one at all. He can’t help but frown, a little disappointed but a little relieved. He moves to his usual seat, and lo and behold, he sees you there, one leg crossed over the other and reading a different book. 

He mutters a soft apology as he slides into the seat next to you, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“Wuthering Heights,” he says, surprising himself.

He watches as you look up from your pages, a small smile on your face. You’re wearing the same lip gloss as yesterday.

“Yeah.” You smile, taking your headphones off and letting them rest around your neck. “You’ve… have you read it before?”

He nods, and he curses himself for looking so eager. “Yes! Um, yes, I’ve read it. It’s really good.”

“Brönte is brilliant,” You respond, sliding a bookmark in between the pages. “I finished Pride and Prejudice last night. Jane Austen is still my favourite.”

You’re baiting him. He knows that. He takes it.

“I saw,” He says quietly, biting his lip. “Not– not in like a stalker way! I just… I just noticed you reading it on the train. Yesterday. I, um, I saw you reading it yesterday.”

He wants to kick himself. His face is flushed and he’s sure that his neck is just as red as his face. His ears are hot and his head spins when he hears you laugh.

“It’s okay. I saw you too.” You offer a smile, your own cheeks warm. “You were reading Edgar Allen Poe a few weeks ago. Is he any good?”

His eyes light up and he tucks an invisible strand of hair behind his ear. It’s a habit of his, since he’s had longer hair almost all of his life. 

“He’s very good,” Spencer insists, pulling the little book out of his satchel. “His works range from short stories to poetry, his most famous works being The Tell-Tale Heart, and Annabel Lee. The former is a short story. It’s a little grim, but he writes in an incredibly eloquent way that presents the narrator’s descent into madness, despite the point of the text being to convince the reader that he isn’t mad. Annabel Lee is a poem about a man obsessed with a woman named Annabel Lee and-“

He purses his lips, realising how much he’s spoken. He coughs into his fist, setting his book down in his lap as he quickly glances at you. 

“…and what?” You prompt, your head tilting the side in curiosity. “Go on, don’t let me stop you. You’re convincing me to actually get the book on his collection of works.”

His head practically snaps to look at you, a look of surprise on his face. He scans your face for any insincerity, from your eyes all the way down to your lips, before clearing his throat. 

“Um… well, uh, in Annabel Lee, the narrator speaks about keeping her in a castle by the sea. It’s a classic case of isolation and some literature analysts even go as far as to say that the narrator was hoping that Annabel would fall in love with him through Stockholm Syndrome but died before the narrator was able to carry out his plan.”

You take in his words, nodding along to his explanation. “You seem to be an expert yourself.”

He laughs, running his fingers through his hair. “No, I uh, I’m not an expert on literature or anything. But I am a doctor.”

“A doctor?” Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Like… a medical doctor or…? No offence, but you really don’t look like a medical doctor.”

He laughs again, nodding. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not. I have PhD’s in chemistry, mathematics and physics, as well as BAs in psychology, sociology and philosophy.”

You let out a low whistle. “You a collector or something?”

He blushes, swallowing thickly. “No, I uh… no…?”

“You don’t sound too sure of yourself doctor…” You pause, realising that you really don’t know much about this man. You look up at him expectantly. 

“Reid,” He says quickly, clearing his throat. “Spencer Reid. You, um, you don’t have to call me doctor.”

“Alright then, Spencer.” You smile, and he thinks it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. You introduce yourself and he tells you that you have a pretty name. 

Time passes, and the conversation continues. You could talk for hours with Spencer; about books, movies, anything. He can make anything sound interesting, it’s one of his charms. He smiles a boyish grin as he talks, gesticulating wildly as he rants about his favourite texts and why Austen is a genius. He asks you what you’re listening to and you almost scream at the thought of introducing him to Taylor Swift. 

Before long, the train lurches to a stop at his station and he can’t help but feel a little disappointed. 

“It was nice meeting you. Officially,” He adds, gripping the strap of his leather bag. 

“It was nice to officially meet you too,” You respond, smiling up at him as he gets up from his seat. “Tomorrow?”

His eyes practically light up. “Tomorrow.”

reblogs are always appreciated!

part two: platform ten

[pbaz7]

AGAINST THE TIDE — PART ONE

paige x azzi

trope: enemies to lovers

warnings: language

word count: 4.3k

A/N: I got a lot of request for an enemies to lovers series so here it is! In this one they both grow up in DC/Virginia to give it a better arc and make it more of a slow burn. I'm also going to experiment with POVs more in this series. This first chapter is pretty much just setting the scene on what's caused them to dislike each other so much. Let me know what you think!

---------------------------------------------------------

March 2018 

The gym was alive with the roar of fans, the bleachers packed to the brim as the Washington D.C. Girls Basketball Championship unfolded. The two teams on the court weren’t just competing for a title; they were locked in a battle of pride and supremacy that had been brewing between the schools for years. 

On one side was Gonzaga College High School, led by the blonde, brash point guard Paige Bueckers, the number one player in the class of 2020. Less than 10 miles and a 20-minute drive away was St. John’s College High School, boasting its own star, Azzi Fudd, the number one player in the class of 2021.

The rivalry between their schools ran deep, stemming from heated football clashes that had been going on for decades, but it was quickly spilling over into the girls' basketball programs. Paige made sure of it. She’d been playing with a chip on her shoulder against St. John’s ever since they handed her team a bitter loss in last year’s championship game her freshman year. To her defense, she had been playing on a bum ankle after rushing herself back to help the team in the playoffs, but the sting of the loss had stayed with her. Sp every time she faced St. John’s, Paige was out to prove a point—and tonight was no different.

Azzi, meanwhile, was laser-focused. She didn’t care about last year because she wasn’t there, though she’d heard about it. But what mattered to her was this year, this game and everything going forward. But she couldn’t ignore how insufferable Paige could be. Earlier this season, Gonzaga had handed St. John’s their only loss in conference play, and Paige had been at the center of it, running her mouth the entire game.

“What’s wrong, Fudd? Can’t handle the pressure?” Paige had taunted during their first matchup, grinning as she drained a step-back three. “Don’t worry freshie—I’ll teach you how it’s done.”

Azzi had kept her composure back then as Paige chirped in her ear, but tonight was different. The stakes were higher, the score tied, and Paige was playing like she owned the court.

As Paige brought the ball up the court, her eyes scanned the defense, locking with Azzi’s. That trademark smirk spread across her face.

“Let’s see if you’ve learned anything since last time,” Paige quipped, her voice loud enough for Azzi to hear.

Azzi rolled her eyes, her hands ready, her feet planted. “Maybe you should focus more on scoring then on talking,”

Paige didn’t answer with words; she let her game speak instead. A possession later her quick crossover sent her defender stumbling, and Paige took the opening, driving hard to the rim. Azzi was there in an instant, meeting her midair and forcing her into a tough layup. The ball clanked off the rim, and Azzi grabbed the rebound, her intensity growing.

As she sprinted back down the court, she couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder. “You should really take my advice, Bueckers, that was pretty bad.”

Paige let out a breathy laugh at finally getting some words out of her, jogging to catch up. “Keep talking, Fudd. You’ll see how it ends.”

The game continued at a blistering pace, the two stars going back and forth, each trying to outshine the other and pull their team to a win. The tension on the court mirrored the years of animosity between their schools, the rivalry growing with every possession.

Azzi hit a pull-up jumper over Paige, earning a roar from the St. John’s crowd as she ran back on defense. Paige came right back, threading a no-look pass for an assist and stopping to blow a kiss to the Gonzaga section of the stands.

Every play, every word exchanged, added fuel to the fire.

For Azzi, it wasn’t just about the championship anymore. It was about shutting Paige up, proving that despite what the media said she was the best player in the DMV. For Paige, it was about reclaiming what she felt was hers—revenge for last year and dominance over St. John’s. It didn’t hurt that she was getting some competition going against the ‘best shooter’ in basketball. 

The crowd could feel it: this wasn’t just any game. They were watching two greats go at it and it was rare to see two household talents come from the same area like this. 

The gym pulsed with energy as the clock ticked down in the fourth quarter. Neither team could pull away, and the intensity between Paige and Azzi burned brighter with every possession.

Azzi moved with purpose, slicing through Gonzaga’s defense and rising for what looked like an easy layup. But Paige came out of nowhere, her hand swatting the ball as it went soaring into the crowd with authority.

“Get that weak shit outta here!” Paige yelled as she flexed both arms, the sound carrying over the roar of the crowd.

Azzi landed hard, her jaw tightening as Paige ran past her. 

Azzi didn’t let it faze her. The next possession, she caught the ball on the wing, her defender sagging just enough to give her space. With a quick dribble, she stepped back, rising for a three-pointer that sailed over Paige’s outstretched hand and splashed through the net.

Azzi held her follow-through for a second longer than necessary, then smirked as she turned to face Paige. “You might wanna put a hand up quicker next time.”

Paige’s eyes narrowed, her grin twisting into something more dangerous. Azzi had no idea how much trash talk fueled Paige's game. “Alright, Fudd. You wanna talk shit now? Bet, watch this.”

The next few plays were a blur of brilliance, all led by Paige. She weaved through defenders with ease, hitting a floater over two St. John’s players. On the next possession, she stripped Azzi at midcourt, sprinting ahead for an uncontested finger roll to add a little extra. The Gonzaga fans erupted, sensing the tide was turning  in their favor.

Azzi tried to respond, driving hard into the paint, but Paige was there again, cutting off her angle and forcing a wild layup that missed off the rim.

“Don’t force it, Fudd,” Paige taunted as she grabbed the rebound and passed the ball up the court. “This is my game now.”

Paige called for the ball on the wing, sizing up her defender before nailing a step-back three-pointer that sent the crowd into a frenzy. Gonzaga’s bench jumped to their feet, and Paige being the competitor she is, turned and gave a little shrug to the St. John’s crowd as she put her index finger to her lip showing that she had silenced them.

Azzi clenched her jaw, glaring at the scoreboard as Gonzaga’s lead stretched to eight. She could feel the championship slipping away, and Paige was at the center of it all with a cocky ass smirk.

The final buzzer sounded moments later, sealing Gonzaga’s victory. Paige’s teammates rushed the court, surrounding her as part of the gym erupted in cheers. Paige soaked it all in, her arms raised in triumph, while Azzi stood frozen near midcourt, her hands on her hips.

Azzi’s chest heaved with frustration as she watched Paige celebrate. She hates losing, but losing to Paige made it so much worse for some reason. Paige caught her eye from across the court, giving her a small, smug wave.

The Gonzaga team revealed in their championship victory, while the St. John’s players trudged back to their bench, disappointment etched on their faces.

The teams soon lined up for handshakes, the air between them still a little tense. To the crowd, it was a display of sportsmanship—players exchanging congratulatory words and polite smiles. But when Paige reached Azzi, the energy shifted.

Paige extended her hand, pulling Azzi in close as if to offer words of encouragement. Her voice dropped to a low murmur, just loud enough for Azzi to hear over the noise.

“Get in the gym, Fudd,” Paige said, her lips curving into a smug grin. “That’s what 2-0 now? Better catch up.”

Azzi’s jaw tightened, and her eyes flashed with irritation. Scoffing, she pulled back, brushing her shoulder against Paige’s as she moved past her.

“You’re such a bitch,” Azzi muttered under her breath, not bothering to look back as she continued down the line.

Paige’s grin widened as she watched her Azzi walk away, the satisfaction of the win lingering just a bit longer knowing she proved she was the number one player for a reason today. 

December 2018

The rivalry between Gonzaga and St. John’s had only gotten more competitive in Paige's junior year and Azzi’s sophomore season. Every time these two teams met, the tension between Paige and Azzi electrified the gym as the crowd fed off of each of them.

Once again the gym was packed, the crowd deafening as Gonzaga and St. John’s went back and forth in a high-energy conference matchup. Paige, with her trademark poise and undeniable confidence, was on fire tonight. She was hitting everything — pull-up jumpers, threes from deep, tough finishes at the rim. With each basket, her smirk grew, and the energy around her was palpable.

By the time the fourth quarter rolled around, Gonzaga was clinging to a three-point lead. Paige, however, had already racked up 35 points and was showing no signs of slowing down. As the ball was swung to her on the perimeter, Azzi closed out hard, trying to force Paige to drive, but Paige just gave a sly grin and pulled up for a deep three-pointer as Azzi’s hand was down.

Swish.

The crowd erupted, and Paige didn’t even look at the basket as she turned to Azzi, her smirk widening.

“You might as well put on a Gonzaga jersey, Fudd,” Paige taunted, she jogged backwards to get on defense. “I’m scoring on you every time.”

Azzi’s teeth clenched, her jaw tightening as the frustration started to build. She had already been pushed to her limits with Paige’s relentless trash talk the whole game. So the next time Paige got the ball, Azzi was determined to make a play.

Paige drove past her on the right wing, using her speed and quick handle to get to the basket. Azzi did everything she could to keep up, playing great defense, but Paige made the offense look effortless, finishing with a smooth layup through contact. Paige landed on her feet, staring Azzi down as she straightened up.

“I really should start a clinic,” Paige continued, voice dripping with mock sweetness, “on how to defend me... I’ll give you some pointers after the game if you want.”

Azzi’s temper flared, the words cutting through her like a hot knife. Even the calmest person in the world got a little fed up here and there. She was feeling the heat of Paige’s relentless taunts, and the more Paige scored, the more Azzi’s focus shifted from the game to the battle unfolding between them.

When the ball was passed back to Paige, Azzi moved to cut her off, determined not to let Paige get an easy look this time. But as Paige shifted her body to drive past, Azzi made the mistake of reaching out with a little too much aggression. Her hand caught more of Paige’s arm than the ball as she went up for a shot, sending Paige tumbling to the court with a sharp thud.

The whistle blew immediately. Azzi froze, her breath catching in her throat. She hadn't meant to foul that hard, but the anger that had been building inside her made the contact feel more like a release than a mistake.

As the referee called for the foul, Azzi immediately ran her hands down her face, her face flushed with regret. She hated that she let her emotions get the best of her, especially when it came to a player like Paige. This wasn’t who Azzi was. She was better than this.

Without thinking, Azzi reached down to help Paige up, her voice soft, almost apologetic. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

But before Azzi could finish, Paige yanked her arm away, her face a mask of anger and disbelief.

“Fuck you,” Paige spat, pushing herself off the floor and standing to her full height. She didn’t look at Azzi, her eyes cold and distant, filled with a harsher fire than what Paige usually plays with.

Azzi stood frozen, the sting of Paige’s words cutting deeper than she expected them to. But she deserves it so she took it in stride. The gym felt like it was holding its breath as the physicality increased, but Azzi didn’t want to dwell on the exchange. She turned away from Paige, heading back to her position as the crowd buzzed with tension.

The game continued, and though Azzi fought to keep her head in the game, it was clear the emotional toll was taking its toll on her. Paige, on the other hand, was unstoppable. She drained another three, her confidence soaring. Gonzaga was up by five, then eight. The scoreboard ticked down, and every time Paige had the ball, it felt like another dagger.

With under a minute left, Paige hit another step-back three, this one over Azzi’s outstretched hand, and it was clear the game was over. The gym erupted as the buzzer sounded — Gonzaga had won 78-66, and Paige had just set a career-high.

As the players lined up for handshakes, Paige felt the weight of the win settle in. But she didn’t feel any empathy for Azzi. No pity. No remorse. The girl couldn’t even handle a little trash talk without purposefully fouling. Paige knew she had silenced the noise, the trash talk, and everything else with a performance that couldn’t be denied by anyone who watched the game.

When she reached Azzi in the handshake line, she extended her hand, but it was more of a formality than anything else. Paige leaned in just enough to murmur, loud enough for Azzi to hear, “Maybe next time you’ll get closer if you don’t piss me off.”

Azzi’s eyes flashed, her entire body tensing as she forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Bueckers,” she muttered, brushing past Paige without another word as she continued down the line.

Paige watched her go, the sense of satisfaction lingering, and though she didn’t say anything, she knew Azzi wouldn’t forget this game.

…

Azzi adjusted the strap of her bag, her knee still a little sore as she limped out of the locker room with Ice packs wrapped on her leg. The sting of the loss was fresh, and the energy in the hallway was a mix of chaos and adrenaline. Reporters lingered around the halls, their voices carrying snippets of postgame chatter as they jostled to capture every quote.

Azzi tried to tune it out, focusing on getting to the bus. She was already replaying the game in her mind, agonizing over missed shots and what-ifs. But as she passed the press conference room, a question snagged her attention.

“Paige, what was it like playing in such a competitive matchup with someone who’s also considered one of the top players in DC if not the entire nation?”

Azzi slowed, her ears pricking at the mention of her name—or, at least, the implication of it. She paused just out of sight, listening.

There was a brief pause, then Paige’s voice cut through the chatter. Calm, confident, and just loud enough for Azzi to hear.

“I always love a competitive matchup,” Paige said, her tone light but unmistakably self-assured. “Games like that are what make basketball fun. It’s why I play. I love when there’s passion in the game like that.”

Azzi felt her shoulders relax slightly. That wasn’t so bad.

But then Paige kept going.

“That being said, I think I showed everyone why I’m the number one player in D.C. tonight and my team was able to come out with the win.”

The words hung in the air, and Azzi’s jaw tightened. Paige’s voice had an edge to it—a playful jab, but one that landed a little too close to home.

Gripping the strap of her bag tighter, Azzi moved down the hallway. She wasn’t going to let Paige’s words get to her, but damn if they didn’t light a fire under her for the next time they met. 

March 2019

St. John’s and Gonzaga met once again in the championship game and honestly to Paige and Azzi it felt like deja vu. To everyone else watching this was the matchup they had grown to anticipate. The two guards always putting on a show. It wasn’t just about the title anymore; it was personal. Paige and Azzi both had more to prove than anyone on the court.

Azzi, standing tall at the top of the game and undeniably one of the best in the country, wasn’t about to let herself walk away with an 0-4 record against the cocky blonde. She’d been putting in the work all season, and despite the gnawing frustration of those past losses, she was determined to make this game different. But there was also something else driving her — the weight of being named Gatorade’s National Girls Basketball Player of the Year, as a sophomore. The title had earned her respect across the nation, but not in Paige’s eyes.

For Paige, that honor felt like a slap in the face. She had dominated the court all year, and everyone knew she was the best in her class and had beaten Azzi already this season. For Azzi to get that recognition before her, it stung more than Paige would care to admit to anyone. It was the kind of fire that pushed her to fight harder, to prove that no sophomore was going to overshadow her. She had something to prove — not just to Azzi, but to herself.

As the game tipped off, it was clear that neither of them had any intention of holding back. Azzi, with her perfect shot and effortless off ball movement, seemed to hit shots that defied logic. A step-back three from the corner with a hand in her face? Swish. A deep three from the logo, well beyond NBA range? No problem. The crowd erupted every time her shot dropped, but Paige wasn’t about to let Azzi get too comfortable.

On the other end of the floor, Paige was doing her thing: a mixture of quick ball-handling, aggressive drives to the basket, and, of course, her signature flashy layups that got the crowd involved. One of them, a twisting, acrobatic finish through a crowd of defenders, had the crowd gasping in awe. She flashed a grin as she jogged back on defense, eyes locked on Azzi, who was already making her way down the court.

“You’re not gonna be able to keep up again, Fudd,” Paige taunted, her voice loud enough for Azzi to hear as she took her position. “This is my game, you’re just along for the ride.”

Azzi smirked, not breaking her focus as she got into her shooting stance. “We’ll see when this game’s over,” she shot back, her confidence unwavering.

The back-and-forth continued like that throughout the first half, neither player willing to back down. Every time Paige hit a flashy layup, Azzi came back with a deep three. Every time Azzi sank another impossible shot, Paige answered with a smooth jump shot of her own. The crowd was on its feet the entire time, watching two of the most talented players in the nation go toe-to-toe, each one refusing to give an inch.

But as the game wore on, the pressure started to mount. With the score neck-and-neck, the trash talk grew sharper, each jab cutting deeper. Azzi, with a quick hesitation move, crossed Paige up and drilled another three in her face. The crowd went wild as Azzi celebrated, but it was the words that followed that set Paige off.

“I guess that Gatorade Player of the Year really means something, huh?” Azzi quipped, her smile wide and taunting. “I think I earned that one, Bueckers.”

The words hit Paige like a punch to the gut. That recognition — the one that had bothered her for weeks — was now in Azzi’s hands, and the realization that Azzi had just used it against her was too much to handle.

Paige’s eyes narrowed, the fire inside her intensifying.

“Keep talking, man,” Paige snarled, voice low.

The rest of the game continued and Azzi seemed to be in complete control, hitting another deep three in Paige's face and then hitting a step-back jumper that had the crowd roaring. Paige tried to respond, but something in her game was off — whether it was Azzi’s defense or the mounting frustration of the game and the award Azzi had rubbed in her face, she couldn’t find her rhythm anymore.

With the game winding down, St. John’s had gained a slight but undeniable lead. Paige’s shots weren’t falling as easily as they had earlier, and Azzi wasn’t letting up. Each time Paige tried to make a play, Azzi was right there, forcing her to pass or making her take tough looks.

Finally, with just seconds left, Azzi hit another clutch three, sealing the game for St. John’s and finally giving her a win over Paige. The buzzer went off, and Azzi’s team erupted in celebration, the crowd going wild. Paige, on the other hand, stood frozen for a moment, her chest heaving as the weight of the loss hit her a little harder than it did her freshman year.

As the teams lined up for the post-game handshake, Azzi walked toward Paige, her smile wide with triumph. When they shook hands, Azzi didn’t hold back.

“Guess it’s 1-1 when it counts, huh? Looks like POTY went to the right player after all,” Azzi said, the words dripping with satisfaction.

Paige’s heart felt like it sank to her stomach. The Gatorade loss had already stung, but now Azzi was rubbing salt in the wound. Still, Paige held her composure, her eyes narrowing as she shook Azzi’s hand.

“Congratulations,” Paige muttered, forcing a smile. Paige hated losing but she wasn’t a sore loser. 

But Azzi wasn’t done. As she walked past Paige, she threw in one final jab.

“Maybe you’ll get it next year.” Azzi’s tone was sweet, but the smirk on her face said it all.

Paige watched Azzi go, her jaw clenched tightly. She wanted to say something, anything, to retort, but she knew the damage had already been done. Azzi had gotten her win — and the bragging rights. For now, Paige would have to swallow this defeat and figure out how to come back stronger and take the jabs that were coming her way. 

July 2019 - Azzi POV

I was on top of the world. After winning the championship and being named the Gatorade National Girls Basketball Player of the Year, I felt like nothing could stop me. Playing in the US Under 18 3x3 Tournament was everything I’d worked for, and I was thriving out there. Every move I made felt perfect, every shot dropping like it was scripted. The crowd was eating it up, and I was feeding off the energy.

But just like that, everything changed.

I was driving to the hoop, sizing up my defender, already thinking ahead to my next move to get past them. My first step was quick, explosive like always — exactly how I’d practiced it a thousand times. I planted my foot to make a sharp cut, my body flowing into the motion like it was second nature. But then… something snapped.

It wasn’t the sound of my foot hitting the court. It was a horrible, sickening pop that shot through my leg like it had been on fire. For a split second, everything froze, and I just knew.

My knee. It wasn’t supposed to buckle like that. I didn’t even have time to scream as the pain hit, like a burning wave spreading from my knee up my leg, down to my toes, into my core. I collapsed instantly, my hands going straight to my knee, trying to hold it together as if somehow that would stop the agony.

Tears welled in my eyes, but I couldn’t focus on anything except that searing pain.

“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, my voice cracking as I tried to breathe through it, my hands gripping my knee as if I could will the pain away. But it only intensified.

I couldn’t move. Every attempt to shift only made it worse. It was like my entire leg was on fire. I barely heard my teammates rushing to my side, their voices muffled as if I was underwater. All I could think was, This isn’t just a twist. This isn’t something I can shake off.

I knew it — deep down, I knew something was wrong. My knee felt swollen already, pulsing with heat. The pop I heard didn’t sound good. Please, please don’t be serious, I thought, even though I knew better. 

“Azzi, what hurts,” my coach said, kneeling beside me, but I barely registered it. All I could think about was how unfair this was. I was supposed to be dominating, supposed to keep riding this wave of success. I was invincible, damn it.

But now, here I was, on the ground, clutching my knee like it was my lifeline — and I had no idea what was next.

The pain started to build, and my mind raced. ACL? No, MCL? My head spun with all the worst-case scenarios. This wasn’t how I imagined this tournament going. This wasn’t how I’d imagined anything going this summer.

My chest tightened as I sat there, trying not to lose it in front of everyone. I didn’t want to break down, didn’t want to show them how scared I was. But I could feel the tears threatening to spill. I wiped them away, blinking rapidly, but it didn’t matter. My body was shaking.

I just wanted to be back on the court. I wanted to keep proving myself, keep pushing. But in that moment, all I could do was sit there and hold my knee, hoping like hell this wasn’t the end.

[oliviaglumac]

Timeless

Pairing : George Harrison x fem!reader

Requested : yes

Genre : fluff

Summary : helping your boyfriend and his bandmates with mostly everything but mainly their music

“Y/n, I need your help,” my boyfriend of just over a year said, glancing up from his notepad.

“What can I help you with?” I asked, moving closer.

“I just don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to rhyme,” he said, his brows furrowed in frustration.

“Well, George, it doesn’t have to rhyme to sound good,” I replied, picking up a pen from his desk.

“Yeah, but I want it to,” he insisted, his lips curving into a small pout.

I leaned over to read what he had written so far, then jotted down a suggestion: “But till she’s here, please don’t come near—just stay away.” After a moment, I added, “I’ll let you know when she’s come home, until that day.”

An hour later, we’d finished the song. George and I had moved on to working out the melody, bouncing ideas back and forth like we’d done a hundred times before.

“George, are you ready?” I called out, standing by the door with my bags in hand. We were about to leave for America, and I was practically buzzing with excitement.

“I’m coming, dear!” he shouted back.

On the plane, Ringo was glued to the window. “Wow, look at all those birds,” he said.

“Well, what’d you expect? We’re good-looking,” Paul quipped, earning a laugh from everyone.

Disembarking from the plane was overwhelming. The screaming fans were deafening, yet it filled me with pride. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of awe for George, Paul, John, and Ringo. They’d come so far from those smoky gigs at the Cavern Club.

At the airport, the boys were bombarded with questions from the press. I found a quiet seat in the back, content to watch the chaos unfold.

The interviews were hilarious, the boys answering with their usual mix of charm and mischief. But one question made my ears perk up.

“What do you think about Y/n and all she’s done for the band?” a reporter asked.

George’s face lit up. “Oh, wow. I mean, she’s wonderful. She helps us with writing, does backup vocals sometimes, and keeps us sane. She’s a great help to the band—we love having her around. Well, especially me.”

His words sent a warm, familiar flutter through my chest. It was the same feeling I had when we’d first fallen in love.

The hotel was unlike anything we’d ever seen��pure luxury.

“Look at these bathrooms!” John exclaimed, wide-eyed.

“That’s a rather silly thing to get excited about,” I teased, laughing.

Paul chimed in, his ear pressed to a portable radio. “I mean, we’ve got so many radio stations now. It’s amazing!”

Ringo, on the phone with a radio station, waved me over, but I stayed back, snapping photos of the boys. Some were candid, some posed, and some just pure silliness.

The day of the Ed Sullivan Show had arrived.

“Y/n, I’m nervous,” George admitted as I fixed his hair backstage.

“You have nothing to be scared about,” I reassured him. “Just imagine the Cavern Club.”

“That’s an odd place to imagine,” he said with a chuckle.

“You know what I mean, silly. You’ll be amazing, as always.”

His nervous smile softened into something more confident, and he nodded.

I watched their performance on a tiny TV in their dressing room. My heart swelled with pride.

When the boys returned, the room was filled with laughter and excited chatter. George came straight to me.

“Well? How’d I do?” he asked, his eyes sparkling.

“Absolutely amazing,” I said, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

“Get a room!” Ringo teased, making everyone laugh.

George grinned before pulling me into a kiss.

“Ewww,” the other three chorused, making me laugh even harder.

“You’re all so immature,” I said, shaking my head.

“Yeah, but you love us,” John said with a smirk.

“I wouldn’t say love. That’s a strong word,” I teased.

“Hey!” Ringo protested, lightly tapping my arm.

On the train to D.C., George and I began working on another song.

“You know, Y/n, I think you should start writing your own music,” he said out of the blue.

“Me? Never. I’ll just ride on your coattails,” I joked, making him laugh.

“No, I’m serious,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re a great writer, and you’ve got a beautiful voice.”

“I don’t know, George. I’m not cut out for the rockstar life. I am cut out for the rockstar girlfriend life, though,” I teased.

“Well, think about it,” he said, pressing a kiss to my temple.

Arriving in D.C. was just as chaotic as stepping off the plane, if not more so. The hotel was somehow even grander than the last.

“Is this really our life now?” John asked, looking around in disbelief.

“Why are you complaining?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not complaining—just amazed,” he replied.

I was working on something for the boys, humming to myself, when Ringo walked by. He froze mid-step, listening.

“Y/n, wow. I’ve heard you sing before, but never by yourself,” he said, clearly impressed.

“Did George put you up to this?” I asked, narrowing my eyes playfully.

“No, I mean it,” he said. “You’ve got an amazing voice.”

“Thanks,” I said, my cheeks warming.

In the studio, the boys were already hard at work on their next album. I was doing backup vocals for a few songs when something in the lyrics caught my attention.

“Wait, John,” I said, pointing to a line. “Instead of this, I think ‘I’ll try to make it shine’ would sound better.”

He raised an eyebrow but grabbed a pen and made the change.

“You know, Y/n, it’s so nice having you around,” George said, his voice soft but sincere.

“I know,” I replied with a grin.

[sims-tec]

Straight from Fallout 3's version of the Enclave comes the Vertibird. The vertibird is a twin-engine, VTOL aircraft with a heavily armored fuselage. It utilizes a unique bug-like canopy that allows the pilot (left) and co-pilot/navigator (right) sitting side by side to see as much as possible while in flight. This version seems to be a dedicated gunship version with a more heavily armored hull, four-bladed rotors in two nacelles, and four retractable landing struts as well as greater maneuverability. In addition to D.C. Enclave, it's also been used by the Lyons Pride squad of the same regions Brotherhood of Steel chapter, the Enclave remnants of the Mojave, and the New California Republic, most notably the President's personal vehicle Bear Force One. Base game, available in buy mode in decor under roof decorations, and in edit town in land marks. Enjoy!

Google Drive: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1spw51-deawu6rrpiPtXBOB4DMhGnS-93/view?usp=sharing

SimFileShare: https://simfileshare.net/download/5368787/

[reality-detective]

BOOM!!! 💥 TRUMP ABOLISHES THE IRS — AMERICANS FREED FROM INCOME TAX FOREVER!

Liberation Day has arrived. April 2, 2025 — President Trump has officially terminated the IRS and launched the External Revenue Service (ERS) in its place.

No more income tax. No more IRS.

Trump stood before the nation and made it clear:

“We’re done taxing Americans to death. From now on, the world pays us.”

This isn’t a campaign promise. It’s not a wish. It’s DONE. The IRS is DEAD. The American people are no longer the government’s cash cow.

We are witnessing a total reversal of power.

The ERS will collect massive tariffs from foreign powers—China, Mexico, Europe—anyone profiting off our markets.

Tariffs on foreign oil. Foreign steel. Foreign yachts. Foreign booze. If it’s imported, it’s taxed. If it’s globalist, it’s over.

$700 BILLION a year.

That’s what Trump’s team says the ERS will generate.

That’s enough to fund the government—without touching your paycheck.

This is economic warfare and Trump just fired the first shot.

“The IRS has been a weapon—now it’s gone.”

The IRS was never neutral. It was an attack dog, used to crush the middle class, intimidate patriots, and punish dissent.

That era ends NOW.

“The American worker is not a piggy bank for D.C. insiders anymore,” Trump declared, fist in the air.

“The world is going to pay us what we’re owed.”

Let the globalists scream.

Let the corrupt media cry.

Let the foreign leaders threaten.

WE DON’T CARE.

America is done apologizing.

Done begging. Done bleeding.

The ERS is not just a tax agency—it’s a SWORD.

A direct strike against globalism, outsourcing, and economic slavery.

Across the country, patriots are rejoicing.

#IRSisDead is trending as families cheer, veterans weep, and business owners feel pride for the first time in decades.

“I’ve paid taxes for 45 years,” said a retired welder. “They took my sweat and gave me crumbs. Today, I’m FREE.”

This is bigger than tax reform.

This is independence.

This is the rebirth of the American dream.

We’re not waiting anymore.

We’re not asking.

We’re TAKING OUR COUNTRY BACK.

The IRS fell. Who’s next? 🤔

- Ezra Cohen

[archivaltrigger]

“Because the US government was not acting on mass shootings, we directly attacked a trait Americans are most known for: their pride in their country. Change the Ref created the Shamecards, a postcard collection designed to demand gun law reform from Congress. Subverting the traditional greeting cards that depict each city’s landmarks, ours show what cities are becoming known for.”

shamecards.org

There is 54 cards total representing:

Annapolis — Maryland: Capital Gazette Shooting

Atlanta — Georgia: Day Trading Firm Shootings

Benton — Kentucky: Marshall County High School Shooting

Bethel — Alaska: Regional High School Shooting

Binghamton — New York: Binghamton Shooting

Blacksburg — Virginia: Virginia Tech Massacre

Camden – New Jersey: Walk of Death Massacre

Charleston — South Carolina: Charleston Church Shooting

Charlotte — North Carolina: 2019 University Shooting

Cheyenne — Wyoming: Senior Home Shooting

Chicago — Illinois: Medical Center Shooting

Clovis — New Mexico: Clovis Library Shooting

Columbine — Colorado: Columbine

Dayton — Ohio: Dayton Shooting

Edmond — Oklahoma: Post Office Shooting

El Paso — Texas: El Paso Shooting

Ennis — Montana: Madison County Shooting

Essex Junction — Vermont: Essex Elementary School Shooting

Geneva — Alabama: Geneva County Massacre.

Grand Forks — North Dakota: Grand Forks Shooting

Hesston — Kansas: Hesston Shooting

Honolulu — Hawaii: First Hawaiian Mass Shooting

Huntington — West Virginia: New Year's Eve Shooting

Indianapolis — Indiana: Hamilton Avenue Murders

Iowa City — Iowa: University Shooting

Jonesboro — Arkansas: Middle School Massacre

Kalamazoo — Michigan: Kalamazoo Shooting

Lafayette — Louisana: Lafayette Shooting

Las Vegas — Nevada: Las Vegas Strip Shooting

Madison — Maine: Madison Rampage

Meridian — Mississippi: Meridian Company Shooting

Moscow — Idaho: Moscow Rampage

Nashville — Tennessee: Nashville Waffle House shooting

Newtown — Connecticut: Sandy Hook Elementary School Shooting

Omaha — Nebraska: Westroads Mall shooting

Orlando — Florida: Pulse Nightclub Shooting

Parkland — Florida: Parkland School Shooting

Pelham — New Hampshire: Wedding Shooting

Pittsburgh — Pennsylvania: Pittsburgh Synagogue Shooting

Prices Corner — Delaware: Delaware Shooting

Red Lake — Minnesota: Indian Reservation Shooting

Roseburg — Oregon: Umpqua Community Collage Shooting

Salt Lake City — Utah: Salt Lake City Mall Shooting

San Diego — California: San Ysidro Massacre

Santa Fe — Texas: Santa Fe School Shooting

Schofield — Wisconsin: Marathon County Shooting

Seattle — Washington: Capitol Hill Massacre

Sisseton — South Dakota: Sisseton Massacre

St. Louis — Missouri: Power Plant Shooting

Sutherland Springs — Texas: Sutherland Springs Church Shooting

Tucson — Arizona: Tocson Shooting

Wakefield — Massachusetts: Tech Company Massacre

Washington — D.C.: Navy Yard Shooting

Westerly — Rhode Island: Assisted-Living Complex Rampage

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Christopher Wiggins at The Advocate:

The White House Correspondents’ Association is scrapping the traditional comedy portion of its annual dinner, marking a striking departure from a decades-long practice of balancing press freedom with political satire. The decision comes amid heightened tensions between the Trump White House and the media, and just weeks after the WHCA announced that queer comedian and Emmy-nominated writer Amber Ruffin would headline the April 26 event in Washington, D.C. WHCA President Eugene Daniels shared the update in a letter to the White House press corps on Saturday. “At this consequential moment for journalism, I want to ensure the focus is not on the politics of division but entirely on awarding our colleagues for their outstanding work and providing scholarship and mentorship to the next generation of journalists,” Daniels wrote. He added that this year’s event will reflect “a re-envisioning of our dinner tradition.” He said that the decision to cancel the comedy was unanimous among board members. Daniels, who covered the White House for Politico, was recently made a host at MSNBC, where he also serves as senior Washington correspondent. [...] In response, Deputy White House Chief of Staff Taylor Budowich lashed out on X (formerly Twitter) on Friday, attacking Ruffin and the WHCA. “This year’s @whca dinner will be hosted by a 2nd rate comedian who is previewing the event by calling this administration ‘murderers’ who want to ‘feel like human beings, but they shouldn’t get to feel that way, because you’re not,’” Budowich wrote. “What kind of responsible, sensible journalist would attend something like this? More importantly, what kind of company would sponsor such a hate-filled and violence-inspiring event?” The WHCA dinner has been held annually since 1921. Since 1983, it has typically featured a comedic roast of the sitting president and their administration—an opportunity for sharp-edged political humor that reflects the sometimes uneasy relationship between the press and the presidency. In February, the WHCA announced that Ruffin, who came out as queer at the end of Pride Month last year, would serve as this year’s featured entertainer. Daniels praised her at the time as “the perfect fit,” someone who could deliver “blistering commentary and humor” while provoking thoughtful engagement with serious issues.

Shame on you, White House Correspondents Association (WHCA), for caving into the whiny demands of the Trump Regime by scrapping Amber Ruffin and her comedic routine from the WHCD.

See Also:

Deadline: White House Correspondents’ Association Scraps Plans For Comedian Amber Ruffin At Upcoming Dinner

[vague-humanoid]

But Montoya explained that the whole situation was much more banal than what Shapiro suggested.

“My trans masculine friends were showing off their top surgery scars and living in joy, and I wanted to join them,” she said in a later TikTok video. “And because it is perfectly within the law of Washington D.C., I decided to join them and cover my nipples just to play it safe.”

“I was simply living my joy and my truth and existing in my body,” she said in the video captioned “free the nipple #trans.” She also said that the rightwing freak out over her chest shows that they see her as a woman.

[cherrycola27]

Red, White, and Bradshaw

A Red, White, and Rooster Sequel

Series Warnings: Language, alcohol consumption, political inaccuracies. Mentions of and acts of terrorism, death. Allusions to and full smut. Banner Credit @thedroneranger

Masterlist Next Part

...........................................

Chapter 1: Designated Survivor

At thirty-nine years old, you'd lived quite a life. You had been married to the man of your dreams for almost a decade. You had four beautiful children with him. You had been the First Lady of the United States, and you were currently the Secretary of Commerce for Bradley's successor, President James Hamilton.

Though you had worn many hats during your time in Washington, you never lost sight of who you were. After his time as president came to an end, Bradley supported your political career. He was more than happy to take a back seat from the spotlight and be a stay at home dad to your kids.

Andy and Elle were now seven, Leo, whom you were pregnant with at his second inauguration was five, and Wren, your fifth anniversary vow renewal oops baby, whom you loved very much, was three.

Your two boys were the spitting image of their father, and your two daughters were like mini versions of you. Out of all of them, Elle and Leo had definitely inherited your can-do attitude and "bossy" personality, as Bradley would say, while Andy and Wren shared his laid-back vibe.

Your family was your pride and joy, but you were also proud of the fact that you never had to sacrifice your love of business and politics to have them. You were blessed with a supportive husband who recognized how hard you worked.

When President Hamilton had first offered you a cabinet position, you were hesitant to take it. How could you raise a family and serve? Being First Lady was one thing. This was an entirely different level.

Bradley listened as you told him about your worries and assured you that he would do everything in his power to support you if you wanted to make this career move. "You supported me when I need you. You helped me follow my dream, and now it's my turn to help you." Bradley had told you as he held you in his arms one night.

The next day, you accepted the offer, and after a relatively quick vetting process, you became Y/N Wiseman-Bradshaw, Secretary of Commerce.

The first few months were an adjustment. You spent many sleepless nights venting to Bradley about how you thought you'd made a mistake and that you should quit. He would listen to your concerns and encourage you and soothe your worries each time. He celebrated all of your victories in your new position, both big and small. Everything was going well—too well.

.............

It was a quiet night in Washington D.C.

President Hamilton was about to give his first State of the Union address. You were in a secure, undisclosed location with your family. You had been chosen as the designated survivor. You thought it was silly, really. What were the odds that every single person ahead of you in the line of presidential succession died at the same time?

But you also understood the importance of it. You appreciated a good backup plan.

You were relaxing in some leggings and a well-worn, oversized Georgetown hoodie, staring at the TV when Bradley joined you.

He had an old Navy shirt and some flannel pants on. He'd just tucked the kids in bed before coming to watch the State of the Union with you.

He wrapped his arm around you as the two of you shared a bowl of popcorn.

"Oh my god, did I look that stuffy when I gave my speehes?" He asked as the two of you listened.

"No, Dearest. You looked exceptionally handsome." You told him. He laughed as the two of you continued to watch the screen. Everything seemed fine—normal even.

Until it happened.

A large boom shook the safe house just as the live feed of the address went black.

You and Bradley looked as each other with panic in your eyes.

"Bradley, go get the kids." You told him. He was out of his seat and racing down the hall before you could finish your sentence. You quickly flipped through the TV channels to see if you could figure out what was wrong. The sound of sirens and helicopters blared from outside. Whatever this was, it was serious.

Just then, Dante, the head of your security team, burst in the door. Mrs. Bradshaw, we need to move all of you now." He said in a protective tone. "Dante, what's going on?" You asked him. He didn't respond.

Just then, a news flash came over the TV, and your heart sank. Your children came running into the room and gathered around you as Bradley followed behind.

"Oh my god." The two of you said in unison. "Bradley, they blew up the Capital." You said in disbelief as you watched the screen. You couldn't believe your eyes. In the spot where the beautiful building had once stood was nothing but a pile of burning rubble.

"Dante, I need you to get the Seresin's on the phone right now." You demanded. "Mrs. Bradshaw, we need to get all of you out of here now. We will call them from the car." Dante said. You wanted to protest, but he was grabbing your arm and hauling you out door as more members of your security team escorted Bradley and your children.

You looked back over your shoulder just in time to see a banner flash stating that there would likely be no survivors. Your heart sank as you thought about all innocent men and women who lost their lives— your parents included.

Suddenly, it felt like everything was moving in slow motion. Andy and Elle sat on either side of you in the car while Leo and Wren clung to Bradley.

You were vaugly aware of him telling you that they had reached Jake and Jaycee. The Seresin's and their three children were fine, and more security would be sent to them.

Bright lights from police, fire, and military flashed through the streets of D.C. as Dante navigated them. You were sure someone was talking to you, but you didn't hear what they said. You felt like you were underwater.

You didn't register yourself getting out of the SUV or the fact that you were being taken through a back passage of the White House. It was only when Chief Justice Inglewood was asking Bradley to hold the Bible and for you to place your hand on, that you snapped back to reality.

"Wait, what's going on?" You said as you looked around the room.

"Mrs. Bradshaw, you're the designated survivor." Chief Justice Inglewood said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You still hadn't processed what was going on.

"Honey, you're about to take the oath of office. You're going to be the president." Bradley said to you calmly.

You took a deep breath as Justice Inglewood looked at you. "Please place your left hand on the Bible, raise your right hand, and repeat after me." She began. You didn't even have time to process what Bradley had said before Inglewood started the oath.

"Do you, Y/N Wiseman-Bradshaw, solemnly swear to faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of your ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States?" Chief Justice Inglewood asked you.

That's when the reality of the situation hit you like a ton of bricks. The president, vice president, and everyone else in the Capital tonight were dead. You swallowed thickly as your children huddled close, not sure of what was happening, but aware enough to know something was off.

You took a deep breath and looked at Bradley for reassurance. He nodded his head and smiled.

"I, Y/N Wiseman-Bradshaw, do solemnly swear to faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States." You affirmed in a shaky tone. You felt like you were going to throw up. You tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry, and your tongue felt like sandpaper. You were vaugly aware of someone taking pictures in the background as you spoke the words.

"Congratulations, Madame President. I wish this could have been under better circumstances." Justice Inglewood said as she shook your hand.

You thought that it was odd that she was shaking your hand and congratulating you. You were here because hundreds of people had died, not because you won an election. You did deserve this.

Your hands started to shake as tears pricked your eyes. This was wrong. All wrong. You felt like you couldn't breathe. How the hell did you end up here?

Your husband turned to you and saw the fear in your eyes.

Bradley immediately pulled you in for a hug before cupping your face in his hands. He could sense the terror running through your body as the severity of the situation set in.

"Oh my god, Bradley. I—I—what am I going to do?" You said as tears threatened to fall from your eyes.

"Right now, we are going to tuck the kids in and read them a bedtime story. Then, you are going to go with Dante to a secure conference room and talk with the department heads that weren't at the State of the Union. You are going to figure out a way for us to get through this because that's what you do best, honey. You solve problems. Tomorrow morning, you are going to drink way too much coffee, put on a suit, and address the nation. You are going to let them know that we are down, but not out. You are going to show them how strong their president is. But most of all, you're going to do your best. That's all you can do." Bradley tells you as he kissed your forehead.

Dante doesn't give you time to respond or to help Bradley with the children before he is whisking you away again.

"Go get 'em; Madame President. I love you." Bradley said as he ushered you to go. You nodded and followed Dante.

You couldn't believe this was happening. One minute, you were enjoying a quiet evening. The next, you were thrust into a position you weren't even sure you wanted and knew you weren't qualified for.

"Oh my god." You said to yourself for what seemed like the hundredth time this evening as the weight of everything settled over you.

You were no longer Secretary Wiseman-Bradshaw. You were President Wiseman-Bradshaw.

Life as you knew it would be forever changed.

Dante and your other Secret Service team members stopped outside a door. Dante went ahead while you waited behind. Moments later, he returned and said,

"Madame President, they're ready for you."

Taglist: @daggerspare-standingby @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun @hecate-steps-on-me @roosterscock @roosterbruiser @roosterforme @seresinsbabe @startrekfangirl2233 @soulmates8 @xoxabs88xox @avengersfan25 @blackwidownat2814 @loveforaugust @mak-32 @cottagecori @amysteryspot @heyimmadisonn @sunlightmurdock @lewmagoo @cassiemitchell @die-cunt @shipinabluebottle @malindacath @violyn20 @imawkwardlysoc @books-for-summer @blackroseboulevard @recordblues @desert-fern @luckyladycreator2 @katieshook02 @samhapner6 @sebsxphia @roosters-girl @diorrfairy @je-suis-prest-rachel @mizzzpink @a-linabean @amklibrary @gretagerwigsmuse @jstarr86 @actuallyazriel @krismdavis @bradshawsbaby @wkndwlff @dakotakazansky @multifandomlover4life @princess76179

[crazycurly-77]

Visit with Consequences - Chapter 1

Fandom: NCIS

Pairing: Gibbs x reader

Warnings: fluff

There had been hardly anything going on in the last few weeks. It seemed as if the criminals had gone on holiday. On the one hand, that was good, but on the other hand, it meant paperwork and looking through old files.

Well, it did have one advantage at least. Because your desk was diagonally opposite your boss, so you could always throw random glances in his direction.

He was really very sexy and when he wanted to, he could be really charming. But most of the time he was the cool, experienced investigator.

That was a shame and your crush on him was hopeless, but sometimes you had the faint hope that he might return your feelings a little.

And this was exactly such a situation.

You sat at your desk and couldn't take your eyes off those bright blue eyes that you could drown in.

Gibbs stood in front of you, looked you in the eyes and, as he had done so often recently, held out a cup of fresh coffee to you with an almost shy smile that made your heart melt.

You knew that you were the only one he brought coffee for and you hoped that this gesture and his smile meant something. But it was probably just pure kindness towards you.

But as you smiled at each other in silence, you noticed movement out of the corner of your eye.

Maybe Tim or Tony were curious and wanted to know what you two were doing? You carefully looked around Jethro...and you could hardly believe your eyes.

Because there he was, the one and only...Dwayne Pride!!!

Yes! It was really him!! Dwayne! Here in D.C.!!

You stood up, called his name loudly, ran to him and threw yourself into his arms.

Laughing loudly, he caught you and wrapped you in his embrace.

When he looked behind you, he saw his brother in arms Jethro, who was still standing there with your cup of coffee in his hand and obviously didn't understand the world anymore.

But Dwayne saw something in his eyes and everything was immediately clear to him. He carefully pulled away from you: "I'm happy to see you again too, but you left someone there who you should be taking care of more than me," he whispered to you.

You just looked at him, irritated. Sighing, he nodded his head in the direction of your desk, where you left Gibbs as if he wasn't even there and his beautiful, warm smile had disappeared.

Oh. You felt uncomfortable that you had just left him standing there. But before you could say anything, he had put the cup on your desk, put on a smile again and came over to you.

Or rather, he went straight to Dwayne, hugged him and whispered: "My brother." Pride also gave him a warm hug and greeted him with the same words that Jethro had greeted him with.

“Are you here for a case?” Gibbs asked him after he had let go of him.

Dwayne laughed briefly: “No, I have the weekend off. And since I needed a change of scenery, I thought I'd visit my brother and see how he's doing.”

He paused, looked briefly at you and then back at Gibbs, smiled and said: “And I think the weekend will be exciting and fun...”

Jethro's expression darkened and he asked briefly: “Where are you staying?”

“At your place, of course!” came the immediate, happy reply from Dwayne, who patted him on the shoulder.

Gibbs nodded, turned to the team and said: “You can call it a day. We'll see you again on Monday.”

Tim and Tony quickly packed their things and disappeared for the weekend, but you were still standing with the two older investigators.

You looked at Dwayne expectantly: “Where did you leave Chris?”

Dwayne smiled and said in his gentle voice and his unmistakable accent: “He's holding the fort at home.”

It's a shame, you would have liked to see him again. It's been a while since the last time, you thought sadly.

Addressing Gibbs, he explained with a wink: “Y/N and Chris are old friends, no need to worry.”

Well, your boss didn't know Chris, but it was a mystery to you why Pride told him who he was.

The two men knew it all the better, because Dwayne looked at his friend and saw that he didn't like your question about another man, because he stiffened and his expression turned dark.

He wanted to burst out laughing, but he just managed to stop himself so as not to provoke Gibbs unnecessarily. My God, it was just too good.

His brother had a huge crush on you and you had no idea about it. And it was apparently the same the other way around when he saw your red cheeks when Jethro stood next to you.

At that moment, Pride happily decided to help the two of you to see what was obvious to him.

“Let's go,” Gibbs told Dwayne. Then he walked to his desk, took his keys and ran to the elevator.

Pride quickly said goodbye to you and assured you that you would see each other the next day.

(To be continued in Chapter 2.)

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Here you will find the other chapters of this story.

Masterlist stories - Part 1 (finished ones)

Masterlist stories - Part 2 (finished ones and ongoing ones)

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Tags: @ilovemark1951, @hobby27

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[xstarkillerx]

Jason Todd, Music and his parents

In my heart, Jason Todd has always been Puerto Rican-irish, don't ask me why it's just what I believe, and he'd love Fontaines D.C. because under the mask is an angry displaced poet who doesn't recognize the world around him. He'd never skip I love You and Dublin City Sky go hand in hand because he knows what it is to point his finger at the things infecting his city and love her all the same. He's limped home from a fight to Nabokov, and stitched his body up to Roman Holiday, chain-smoking to steady his hands, because what else do you do in your wretched lonely 20s. There isn't much love left for Willis Todd, no memory of what he liked, loved, or wanted from life; Jason's inheritance is a stiff upper lip and a bit of Irish Pride.

It has to be the right time for him to listen to Jibara music: morning when he's clean from blood but still sore and bruised. This is when he misses home the most, not Bruce's house, but the cold and peeling room of his mother. Her voice waned the older he got but there was evidence of something sweet that'd carry stronger in humid air that Gotham can't provide. He looks for old Puerto Rican records in pawn shops hoping to find songs he's heard his mother sing quietly in the wee hours, he's only managed to find 3— maybe more but it can be hard to tell sometimes, they don't sound the way she did.

[nophunleague]

stare decisis: chapter ten - nota

nota: latin for familiar

masterlist

wc: 819 (sorry, kinda short :/)

rafael barba x original female character

Not so little brother Mac is patiently waiting upon Quinn’s arrival back to her apartment.  Seeking to avoid what would feel like the hundredth confrontation of the day she slinks immediately to her bedroom to change into more comfortable clothing. After she slips into sweat pants and an old Washington D.C. shirt that’s so faded to almost beyond recognition, she meets with Mac in the living room. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” her hands grip the top of an armchair’s backrest as she stands behind it, knees locked and jaw clenched. 

“I knew you would tell me not to come,” again he shoves his hands into his pockets but also takes a step closer to his older sister. 

He takes the time to survey her appearance, she’s no more pale than he’s used to seeing her, her hair is clean and maintained, and there’s a healthy flush in her cheeks. “You look good Quinn, healthy and at least content with your life,” he takes another step closer. 

The corners of her eyes tighten as her eyes meet his but she stands strong; “you should have told me you were coming.”

“Is that all you’re going to say? Okay fine, Quinn, I should have told you I was coming. It was a dick move for me to show up at the courthouse, I’ll cop to that,” his hands are thrown up in defense as he raises his voice one octave. 

Quinn takes a deep breath before rushing forward and wrapping her arms around him. Her face is pressed square into the middle of his chest and she breathes in the familiar scent of the same cologne he’s been wearing since she started buying it for him when he was in high school. His arms feel like a security blanket as he embraces her, the dull thud of his heartbeat slows as their disagreement draws to a close. 

“I have missed you so much,” her speech is muffled against his chest but he nods in agreement and kisses the top of her head. 

It feels like the weight of the world has been lifted off of her shoulders as someone who has known her since he was born is there, in front of her, not an ounce of judgment or disdain on his face. 

“You want pizza for dinner” she pulls away and moves to the kitchen; she pulls a take out menu off the fridge and hands it to him. 

Pizza is ordered and delivered, thirty minutes later the sibling duo sits in Quinn’s living room, alcohol of choice of each in hand with an empty pizza box between the two of them. 

“Your co-counsel seems like a piece of work,” Mac throws back a swig of beer while Quinn rolls her eyes.

“You don’t know the half- wait, how do you know that?”

“Oh before I went to the courtroom I went up to your offices thinking you’d be there. Accidentally bumped into him when he was leaving to go somewhere and he threw some choice words in Spanish my way,” he shrugs. “I honestly thought you were exaggerating when you said he was an ass.”

“Yeah well he was on my case this afternoon because he thought you were a hot date that pulled me away from work,” she drains her wine glass and throws her pizza crust back into the box.

“Do you remember that time Mom followed you out to Kaley’s house because she thought you had a secret boyfriend?” Mac looks off in the distance remembering an escapade of Quinn’s childhood. 

“I don’t think Kaley had ever been as scared as she was when Mom ran up on us in the tent in the backyard,” a laugh escapes Quinn’s lips. “All Kaley could yell was ‘Please! We mean no harm!’ I think she thought Mom was bigfoot or something; I knew it was Mom though, she wasn’t a very good tail. Do you remember when you got hurt during that one football game and Mom literally tackled your coach to get to you on the field? I’m surprised she didn’t catch any charges that day.” Mac’s laughter reverberates through the apartment.

“I wasn’t even hurt, just a little disoriented from a good hit,” his teenage athletic pride bubbles to the surface.

“Okay Macky, whatever you say,” Quinn throws her head back to rest on the back of the couch. “How long are you here for?” Mac’s laughter stops. 

“Just two days,” he smirks, “I might have embellished when I said I had the leave to burn.”

“Classic story Mac. But two days is not a viable trip to New York and back to Germany. You need time to recover from that jet lag!” Big sister mode kicks in, scolding Mac for not taking care of himself. 

“Hey hey hey, I’m a doctor. I can take care of myself! Don’t worry Quinn.”

~break~

a/n: Miles Teller is the faceclaim for Cormac Brady, little brother to Quinn! Hope you all are enjoying! I know it's a slow burn but you've got to keep the faith!