#he steals my college fund

[what-a-fucking-disguise-this-is]

how many times do you have to obsessively think about killing yourself (like daily) after having a breakdown over cake and how shitty your parents are before you get put in a psych ward or diagnosed with some shit?

[funkopersonal]

Im quite literally so done with this shit. i keep on going back and forth between hiding all the i/p related tags, but then I realize that its seeped EVERYWHERE. It's in the motherhood tag, and jewish history tag, and everything else. I can't fucking escape it. I opened tiktok yesterday to see one of my favorite characters (iron man) weaponized to support the one group that wants to see me dead, the user saying that iron man would support palestine, and be an antizionist because he "spoke out against the public" and he wasn't like the sheep. It frustrates me to no end this horrible cycle of fucking misinformation that exists.

As a Gen Z, I simply do not understand how its reached this point? I can't even write all my feelings and information about how shitty this is in a single sitting because 1) it'd be too long and 2) my joints wont let me write that long. But how did it reach this point?

How did it reach the point where jewish/isreali stores are fucking marked to notify the public. Their windows are being broken and the stores are being robbed. How did it reach the point where jewish students on some campuses are told to stay home? how they're harassed out of specific areas, and campuses have been made unsafe? How did it reach the point that people literally have written "I ♡ Houthis & Hamas" and "no mercy for Jews."? How did it reach the point that there are nazi symbols, and hanging deadmans, and communist symbols being drawn on college campuses? How is it possible that students are calling for the end of jewish student unions and hillel international on campus? that'd be like calling for the end of the fucking muslim student organization, or disbanding an african-american affinity group. Which would never be acceptable, but apparently its fine when its jews.

I'm sick and tired of all the horrible conditions of palestenian cities being blamed on israel. Palestine is its own country. They had their own government until they elected Hamas to lead them. Hamas, who diverted all their funds to the military. Hamas, who uses hospitals and public spaces as their bases. Hamas, who built miitary tunnels under cities so that when they're invaded, the cities will collapse on itself. Hamas, who steals all humanitarian aid from its citizens. Hamas, who controls palestenian media and teaches hatred to its children. Hamas, who wants their citizens to become martyrs for their country, to die for their goal. Hamas, whose number one goal is to eradicate all jews. Hamas, who denies the existence of the holocaust. Hamas, who enlists children as soldiers and suicide bombers. Hamas, who has has never expressed an interest in a 2 state solution.

Is this the organization you consider freedom fighters? because i dont think they should ever, in any context, be called that. Hamas is nothing but terrorists.

Yes, the deaths and treatment of palestenian citizens is horrible. but no, this is not a genocide. Israel is trying to rid them of Hamas, because quite literally, no country should ever be forced to live in "harmony" with a terrorist group. Especially one who denies their existence and actively wants to kill them all. Israel has been letting palestenians get jobs in the country, has let palestine use their resources and water, all for years. They've let hamas continously bomb them, they've gotten used to a life of bomb shelters in every residence. Hamas has done nothing but crippled their country's own economy and society.

None of the surrounding coutnries want to let in palestenians, or live with palestenians. Egypt wants to annex Gaza, and Jordan wants the West Bank. In fact, they did own that land for a part of history! Yet Israel has let palestenians govern themselves for years, even when Hamas originally came into power, they didn't interfere. Not until they were provoked.

Yes, Israel has flaws. But welcome to the fucking real world, princess. Every country has flaws. Even America, you dipshits. This is not a little fandom for you to play sides on. its not some fictional world that has a black and white solution. Yes theres going to be deaths, just like in any other WAR. But you really can't call for the destruction of a country on the basis that they're trying to make sure they're allowed to stay a country? Because guess what honey bunchkins? "from the river to the sea" really doesn't mean what you think it does. It just means that you want to kill all jews, or at best, forcefully remove them and scatter them around the middle east. (to countries that have killed them in swaths in the past. To countries that have emprisoned jews for helping others escape. To countries that avidly hate jews and want them dead). I don't understand how that would mean peace in any way shape or form?

Not only that, but half of "protestors" and "activists" for palestine, haven't even done basic research. They dont know what river or sea theyre talking about. They dont know that "palestine" was not a palestenian state in 1948, but it was instead a BRITISH MANDATE, that was NOT fully occupied by palestenians. In fact, "palestenians" weren't a thing. Palestenians are just muslims and arabs from countries like syria, who lived alongside jews and christians in the same land (which was largely uninhabited for the most part). Yeah, you heard me right.

Honestly my thoughts on this issue are so scattered its so hard to make a solid points when I can just keep on going forever.

Fact is, Israel deserves to be a country. No one should be supporting Hamas. Everyone should be supporting the eradication of Hamas (and I mean Hamas not palestenian citizens). I don't get how these are debated, and seriously don't understand how citizens of america are so quick to support a terrorist group, to resort to antisemitism.

Im so done with this all. I cant believe we have to tell you gentiles that stoning a 13-year old kid for being jewish is horrible. That throwing a brick through an israeli-owned cafe in New York is horrible. That students not being able to be on campuses because of their religion or ethnicity is horrible.

This has to end.

Do your research, or don't speak (and terrorist-controlled propoganda channels don't count).

[brucewaynehater101]

I do have a few more examples! Tim offers Mister Freeze unlimited funding to help his wife on the condition that he sometimes helps with other projects. He hires Harvey Dent to be his personal lawyer (not that he needs one). Blood Sport, Death Stroke, Dead Shot, and many other mercenaries are hired to "break into" Drake Industries to hunt down and "kill" Tim or "steal" important information in order to test his companies defenses and tell him exactly how they got in so that he can patch any holes. He hires one to break in every 2 to 3 months but never the same person in a year. Like if he uses Deathstroke in August he can't use him again until January.

Tim also doesn't want to force these rouges to move far away from their homes so he opens up branches in Metropolis, Central City, Star City, and others too. Anywhere he opens an office for Drake Industries, crime rate always plummets thanks to him hiring all the Henchmen and giving them stable jobs that pay at minimum double the minimum wage of the area plus really good health insurance and other benefits. They even have dental and 4 months paid maternity *and* paternity leave! The desk work may not be as exciting as their previous jobs but boy is it safer.

Also I would like to make one note. DI is one of the few major cooperations in America that openly does *not* donate to the Jusitce Leauge. Tim is still salty about Bruce Quest and during an interview where someone asked how much he donates to them, Tim said, "oh I don't. At all. It's not that I don't believe in them, I do, uts just. There's already so many places funding them they don't need me. But you know who does? The younger generation of heroes. Did you know that The Teen Titans only get funding through the Justice Leauge? I don't think that's very fair so I donate to them. I donate to Young Justice. I track down and do research on dozens of younger heroes who aren't part of any organization and check to make sure they're doing good in their community and then I directly donate to them. Superheroing is expensive, just look how much the JL spends on it! Could you imagine? Being fresh out of high-school, working a minimum wage job, and having to make your own suit and gadgets while also paying for *college*? The stories I have heard from some of them! This one poor kid, he told me that he had to use this roll of regular fabric he found in a dumpster because buying a roll was to expensive! Of course I sent him to a super hero tailor on my own dime, after all he just wanted to help his community saving kittens from trees and stopping local mugging. But still, small heroes like him are important. After all, didn't Superman start by saving cats from trees? Didn't Green Arrow start by stopping a mugging? Didn't Batman himself start by stopping a purse snatching? You never know who the next big hero will be in 5 or ten years."

I might have gotten a bit to into that rant. Listen. Listen this is a subject close to my heart. Small Time Heroes Are Important!

My gods, I love this so so much. You combined two tropes I love: Tim using Business to fund social programs/decrease crime/hire ex felons and criminals, and Tim turning his back on the JL after the BruceQuest.

Added with Tim funding small time heroes???? This is phenomenal

[lulu-nightbon]

alright, i... didn't want to do this. i didn't want to have to do this. especially with all the hate ive been getting in my inbox recently. but i don't have a choice.

hi. im lulu. im a 21-year-old autistic immunocompromised queer person. i currently live with my mother (senior) and my little sister (10 years old). i need your help to get out.

(context and avenues to help below the cut)

as some of you may know, my stepfather died on august sixth from a heart attack. we lived in his parents basement, as it was all we could afford, and we depended on his income. he had a stable job, and mom decided to become a housewife and sell some things from the buisness they created together. when he died, the buisness was dissolved, as it was an llc partnership. his parents are extremely controlling, and as such, he was only able to finally start building up credit when mom came along, and we were almost at the point where he could qualify for a home loan so we could get out and get away from his parents.

that's gone now.

mom cannot qualify for a home loan because of her student loan payments and the credit card payments. we do not have the money to pay these off, and mom is trying desperately to get a job. we need the money to get out, as my stepfather's parents have been trying to get my sister away from my mom and shove both her and i out of the family for years. things are only getting worse now as we have reason to believe they are spying on our conversations and even going so far as tracking us (for example, they found a spare key to the car and went and took it and "cleaned it out" without mom's knowledge or permission, as it's her car now). they have been trying to circumvent mom and go behind her back during the entire process with the funeral home, coroner's office, all the legal documentation, and they are extremely infuriated that they cannot decide anything or push mom out because they are not the next of kin and have been trying to circumvent this. we have reason to believe that they're going to attempt to sell the cars that are still in my stepfather's name to collect on the money and never give us a dime, like they had with almost all of the money my little sister received as part of the college fund we set up at my stepfather's funeral as well as any money that my little sister had won in the past. we will never see a dime of it, and it's extremely upsetting that they are doing this. they have been running scams for years, and they have been nothing but hellish towards my mother, claiming she's withholding information from them when she has offered more than they've asked for and they have done nothing but take my little sister out and about without ever telling mom anything (for example- they screamed that mom was withholding information when she said she didn't copy the tox report for them because it was empty and claimed they needed to know his cholesterol levels [which doesn't even show up on a tox report- they didn't run his blood, either, and they didn't check his cholesterol levels anyway because they know that's what killed him, they could see it] and would not provide reasoning why [it does not affect them anyway just by nature of it being cholesterol], while on sunday they took my little sister out the whole day and failed to communicate with my mother that she would be with them and would be home after dinner).

they have been screaming at mom for collecting social security as though she was stealing their money and demanded that she doesn't get a job, and we have more than enough reason to believe that they are trying to get her to default on the bills so they finally have legal grounds to take my little sister and kick us out, leaving us with nowhere to go and no options. they have even gone as far as to threaten to take my sister away using force in the past, and, as they have firearms, that is a terrifying threat. they are unhinged and extremely upset that they cannot control us and make us do what they want, how they want, when they want, and they are up in arms over it.

when we move out, all hell is going to break loose, but the longer we wait, the worse it's going to get.

my stepfather, being 37 when he died, did not like thinking about his own mortality, so he didn't have a life insurance policy, a 401K, a will, nothing. we have been left high and dry by his death, and that is pushing aside the grief. we do not have the money to pay off the bills, pay for a lawyer, pay to have the car re-keyed to keep them from stealing it again, or to even flat-out buy a house to circumvent needing a loan, and on top of it all we have to deal with stepfather's parents not allowing us to grieve and implying that mom is a tramp and a heartless bitch that will blow any money given to her when she is more financially responsible than them. we also have to worry about them stealing our things, especially with how much they complain about how messy the basement is when most of the things here are theirs (stepfather's parents are hoarders- more specifically, his father hoards cars, and his mother hoards everything else, going out and shopping frivolously almost every day).

we need help with money, and i hate to ask, especially with the requirement of revealing my legal name and in light of the harassment i have been receiving for over a month now, but we need to get out of here, and we need to get out of here soon. it's only going to get worse the longer we stay. we need money to help with the bills, my mom's student loans, getting a lawyer, and getting a place to move into.

im posting this because im the only one my stepfather's parents won't find on any platform that i choose to use. my current goal is $9,000 USD, if only just to get enough money to get a cheap plot of land to move into, or one of the really cheap houses out here. this won't cover the loans or bills in addition, or the cost of getting a lawyer or anything else we need, but it is enough to get us a cheap place to live. i know it's a lot of money, but we are in a dangerous situation and need the money to escape. if we were to pay for everything, the goal would be in the hundreds of thousands, and i feel horrible just asking for this much. if you can't donate, please reblog, even the visibility might help and please do not spread my legal name. please remember to put "payment" or something generic in the reasoning box if it's required so that i will actually receive the funds instead of having my account purged from the site. i didn't want to ask for this, but i have no other options. please help.

c*sh*pp: $lulunightbon

v*nm*: @Lulilial

Goal: $0/$9,000

[sanzaibian]

Life is really unjust.

My name is Killian Ndiaye, and I’m intimately acquainted with its bad side. My father died while I was young, leaving me to be raised along with my younger sisters by only my ma. We weren’t rich by any means, so it meant that my ma made ridiculous hours at her job, and that us, when old enough, had to pitch in with part-time jobs.

Thankfully, I was quite an intelligent kid, and still managed to have quite good grades. However, that didn’t mean that school life was easier, as I was always labeled as the “poor nerd” in class, wearing the few simple clothes I owned and sporting the buzzcut my ma cut for me. As she always said, others just cared more about looks than about life.

However, this was not the last of my struggles, quite the countrary as it turned out that I wasn’t the cis straight man I was supposed to become. High school was formative in that sense, as it’s in there that I noticed that I wasn’t into girls like the other guys my age were, and like ma expected me to be.

I… had a very hard time admitting that I was gay. Ma always told me that those “queers” didn’t know what life was like, and that they were just living carelessly, wasting their parent’s efforts… I didn’t want to wast my ma’s efforts, as I love her, yet I couldn’t hide from the truth. I’m gay, and that’s just it.

I vainly thought that I just needed not to be like “those gays”, those who live in the hairdresser’s, the clothing store and the clubs, looking all like fairies, and that everything was going to be alright. How shameful it was when, at 17, I started questioning my gender, so disconnected I feel to masculinity and other men’s experiences, and so uncomfortable I am with the facial hair that just won’t stop growing…

I thought that if I just suppressed it, if I was just the most “normal” I could be, then everything was going to be alright. That perhaps, I just needed to alleviate a bit my dysphoria, and everything was going to be alright.

However, my ma is a very observant person. As I was approaching majority, she started to make comments about a girlfriend, and about me stubbornly shaving my face. I just dismissed those questions, still foolishly hoping that everything would end well.

When I was 18, she asked me whether I was gay. I couldn’t lie to my ma.

And we arrive to now, a few years later. My ma “didn’t want a fairy in her house”, so I stayed with a few friends. But when they went to college and I couldn’t, I was left to fend for myself alone. Now, I live in the streets, and spend my time alternating between finding part-time work and begging in the city. I do it whenever I need to go somewhere, and though I don’t do anything illegal – I even spend some of my meager funds on a transports card – it absolutely does not mean that I’m suddenly well-liked.

Few are those who spare any money. And on top of that, because I’m a black man, I hear plenty of racist comments. As if they thought I didn’t hear them asking me to “return to my country”, even though I’m already there…

And the most depressing fact of this all is, because I can’t really shave anymore, my dysphoria is going through the roof. My life is hell, but I keep at it in the vain hope that I’ll be able to climb back to a respectable life.

However, today was especially terrible. I had found an interesting job of installing the equipment for a big concert, and actually ventured quite far from the center of the city to go to the big theater. When I arrived there, they told me that they weren’t looking for anyone, they had all the help they needed. Dejected, I left, but as I was leaving, another young guy entered. I hang out a bit to hear what was going on, and I heard that he was hired for the temporary job. I guess they thought I would steal from them or something…

It’s so unfair ! I love music, and at school always wanted to do something that had a link to it ! I was so hyped to work in this job ! I thought that if I worked hard enough, people would even notice me and my good knowledge of the equipment, and would consider me as a good partner for further work ! But, as ever, all those dreams were, once again, cut short…

On the way back, I started begging, but as I reached the back of the first bus, I saw what looked like a man in a dress, wearing makeup and nail polish, being harassed by an older-looking woman.

“(…) and any sensible person ! How do you expect me to do nothing while a pervert is preparing to go to women’s bathrooms and assault girls ? You should be ashamed of endangering others !

- Miss... please stop… I swear I won’t do anything bad…” The person in a dress said, clearly on the brink of tears.

- And how can I trust you ? I know you snakes, you’re just saying this to then go and continue your business unharmed !”

As she was about to continue harassing that person, I decided I needed to step in. I want there to be justice at least somewhere, even if it can’t be in my life. I step between her and the person in a dress, and ask calmly :

“Miss, please stop. They are clearly really hurt by your comments, and everybody around us is uncomfortable with this display.” I say, as I watch everyone else looking away, as if nothing’s happening. Courage shines ever so hard…

- Oh, now a beggar is coming ? You should go back to your country or find a goddamn job rather than profiting off of our hard work !” She said, clutching her designer bag, as if I was going to steal it.

- Miss, these comments are really racist. Please stop.” I stay, choosing to remain calm and composed.

- What, can’t I say what things are ? That’s really all the wokist’s fault, nowadays we can’t say anything, we have to walk on eggshells at all times ! I’m not racist, but if you want racism to stop, you have to stop overreacting at everything !”

She looks at me with a smug look, as I’m about to lose it. I can’t answer anything, because, unfortunately, one can’t argue out of nonsense ! Especially someone like me who’s not trained in rhetoric – I had part-time jobs at the time !

… at least, I can shield that person with a dress from further harassment. I look behind, and see them smiling to me, thankful for my help. If I can help at least one person, I’ll be happy.

Suddenly, the sound of thunder rings in my ears.

No one seems to be bothered by it, save for the old woman who seems to be just as uncomfortable as I am. I turn to see the person I was protecting, however their eyes glow an unnatural color… What’s-

Before I can even try and understand what’s happening, a headache strikes, and I instinctively put my hand on my face. Fuck, I hope I haven’t gotten a cold or something, medication is hard to come by…

As I’m holding my face, a few fingers make their way in my beard (ugh). But suddenly, I feel it shifting. Intrigued, I touch my beard more thoroughly, and feel the hairs receding, growing smaller and smaller, until they finally come back under my skin.

How did that happen ? I mean, I like not having a beard, but still, it’s not normal… I look in front of me and it seems that the woman is losing wrinkles. What’s happening !

The bus stops. Quite a few people leave. Why was I here ? … yes, I had to do something with the people on it… was it work ? I don’t quite remember…

However, as I look around me, I suddenly notice that the people who looked away previously looked a little bigger. As if they were… bulking up ? As I notice that, I feel pain on my body. When I look down, it seems that my undernourished body looks more healthy… No, not just healthy, it looks… muscular ? I’m… inflating, somehow ?

The bus starts again, yet this time, its course seems smoother… I look in front of me and notice that the old – now young – woman’s hair is now tied up in a bun. Almost instinctively, I take my hand to my hair, and feel it moving.

What was a short messy afro is growing, however, something even weirder happens. As it grows, I feel strands joining, growing into large spirals. It’s no longer a sponge-like mass, it’s more like… coils ? My hand presses less and less. I need to be careful about my hair, I don’t want to have to go to the hairdresser again !

I stop myself at my thoughts. Hairdresser ? They’re a waste of time ! Only those who don’t care about life – or don’t have to care about life – go to those and try to look good. Yet… it feels good. No, actually, it feels... right…

Like, it’s right to want to look good ? I mean, look at me, I have muscles, I have good hair, I look good ! Suddenly, I feel my t-shirt straightening and softening. I look down as its color drains, and it splits in the middle. I smirk, and as the collar hardens and folds, I open it the shirt up to the middle of my chest, right as buttons materialize.

The woman in front of me, now sporting a much more formal costume, sighs and gives me a black jacket. I take it and put it on expertly on top of my dress shirt, fitting it right down to the belt holding my dark jeans. She then sits on one of the seats, more in the front of the bus.

She really looks stylish, as one should… after all, fashion is the be-all and end-all ! One of the other passengers comes to me, quite a muscular guy dressed in a black suit, and starts putting makeup on me. I close my eyes as foundation, concealer, mascara, and tattoos are put on my face and body. I can do it all myself, but having a professional do it is always better. That’s why I always go around accompanied.

I suddenly open my eyes. What the hell is happening ! I don’t have a tattoo ! I don’t do makeup ! Hair and clothes suffice ! ...

I scratch my shaved sides, until I reach my earrings. Yeah, it suffices… good hair, good clothes, good makeup and good accessories… it suffices…

“Are you good, Mx. Ndiaye ?” The makeup artist asks me.

- Yes, don’t worry, I’m good.” I say, with a deep yet feminine voice. It seems wrong somehow…

- Do you want to see the results ?

- Of fucking course !”

The makeup artist grabs a pocket mirror and holds it to me.

Oh yeah, I’m so fucking gender ! Plus my necklaces oozes fanciness. Like, it makes me look so fucking rich !

I look around me. The vehicle somehow seems more… cramped, even though at the same time it seems more spacious, with its large seats. My head hurts, it really feels like something is wrong…

Suddenly, the limousine stops. Annoyed, I shout to the chauffeur :

“Magdalena ! Why the hell are you stopping ? We’re not at the villa yet !”

The chauffeur looks back. Wasn’t she an old grumpy woman just now ? She looks so young and has such fancy clothes, even though it’s quite clear that she isn’t from high society.

Ugh, my head really hurts...

“I’m sorry, Mx. Ndiaye, we have new guests to pick up at your request.”

I look around and see that person with a dress leaving. Suddenly, it all comes back as a flash of light. I’m not supposed to be an ultra-rich person, I don’t need all of these fancy clothes and accessories ! … I’M SUPPOSED TO BE ON THE STREETS !

That person, as if they were reading in my mind, answers in a rich and deep yet slightly unsettling feminine voice :

“You have the gratitude of the calamities, Mx. Ndiaye. Accept this… gift.” They say, smiling as they get out, followed by the makeup artist and one of my two personal guards – the other staying at the front of the vehicle.

Suddenly, it’s as if a fog descends on my mind. Like, what was I thinking about ? Oh, yeah, I was thinking about my next song that I’ll film in the villa ! Ugh, it’s so annoying that my agent asks me to pump out banger after banger like, I have all the money in the world… but I guess it’s alright to work a little. This way, I get famous and get laid, and that’s the only thing that really matters.

As I’m about to shout on the chauffeur to ask why she’s not turning the limousine back on, two guys, a cute twink and hot hunk, climb aboard. I lick my lips. It’s gonna be a great night.

“So, guys,” I say, letting them take place in my arms at my right and my left. “have you heard of my new song that’s gonna come out ? If you’re good enough, I might even let you in in the filming for the clip…”

And the limousine sets off.

The sun comes to my eyes, and I wake up in a giant luxurious queen bed, with my two conquests sleeping tight at my left and my right.

I smile as I get up, naked. Yesterday’s clothes were flung in all directions, and as I approach them, I see they’re all crumpled. I chuckle. We had a ton of fun last night… Besides, Magdalena’s gonna be the one to pick that all up.

I take from the closet a nice pair of white pants and a white shirt, and put them on quickly. I go to the balcony, and look at the view.

Life is really unjust.

I get to live the perfect life, while others are left to pick up the remaining pieces.

But when you’re on its good side,

Life is fucking lit.

[copperbadge]

Radio Free Monday

Good morning everyone, and welcome to Radio Free Monday!

Ways to Give:

Anon linked to a fundraiser for Davy, a fellow employee at Old Tucson amusement park, who was recently struck by a car while on his bike; he was already low-resourced, and was living in a homeless shelter with his wife and son at the time of the accident. One of the other staff at the park has started a gofundme to help support the family during his long recovery and hopefully get them a stable place to stay; you can read more and support the fundraiser here.

chibifukurou linked to a fundraiser for a fandom friend, Chroma, to get her back home so she can get help with health issues and housing. She's been stranded out of state with severe Long Covid, without access to a support network or adequate care; they're trying to get funds together to get her transportation and a month at an extended-stay hotel while she gets her feet under her. You can read more and support the fundraiser here.

Help For Free:

songspinner9 is running a Donor's Choose fundraiser for Teacher Appreciation Week, to get funds to stock her library with books that represent her students' communities and for art supplies to help her middle-school students express themselves in creative language arts and history projects. You can read more and vote for the fundraiser here!

News to Know:

soc_puppet linked to summerofthe69, an annual smut fest that is returning for 2024! You can vote here on what this year's themes should be; you need to have a Dreamwidth account to vote, but anyone is welcome to promote their favorites in the comments to the post.

Recurring Needs:

loversdoom is a college student from the Philippines, studying away from her family, and her parents are unexpectedly unable to support her education; she is dealing with a number of expenses and is now looking at costly medical procedures as well. You can read more and reblog here or give to the fundraiser here.

onedollopofsourcream is raising funds to help with food, transportation, medication for their family, and other expenses after a string of financial issues; you can read more, reblog, and find giving information here.

rilee16 is raising funds to get out of an abusive home situation where their roommate has been aggressive and stealing from them; with irregular work hours and a tax debt due on top of chronic illness issues, they also need funds to repair their phone, which is dying, and cover utility bills. You can read more, reblog, and find giving information here.

And this has been Radio Free Monday! Thank you for your time. You can post items for my attention at the Radio Free Monday submissions form. If you're new to fundraising, you may want to check out my guide to fundraising here.

[iboatedhere]

could I please get "heart shaped sunglasses" as a prompt? I love canon but if there's an AU that speaks to you I'd love that too

I went with a photographer/model AU.

—

Alex didn’t grow up thinking he wanted to be a photographer.

He cycled through dreams that almost every kid has—doctor, teacher, President of the United States, and astronaut. For a few weeks, when he was four, he thought seriously about becoming a T-rex.

When he was thirteen, he found an old camera in the attic that his father had left behind when he moved out.

He watched a half-dozen YouTube videos to figure out how to get it to work, then took a photography class in high school and got a position on the school paper, taking shots of football games and events around town.

He thought he looked cool, carrying around a vintage camera that used real film in the age of sleek digital devices and camera phones, and he was good at it. He received heaps of praise from his photography teacher, won awards in local contests, and even sold a few prints at farmer’s markets and craft fairs around Austin.

Alex majored in studio art in college, focusing on photography and media. He learned about color, composition, and lighting. He studied Ansel Adams, Dorthea Lange, Steve McCurry, and Robert Capa. He thought about becoming a war correspondent, embedding himself in the most volatile parts of the globe and reporting the truth through photographs—gritty, raw, and dangerous.

Where he ended up was someplace much softer.

–

Alex first saw Henry Fox on the glossy pages of one of June’s fashion magazines when he was twelve.

Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar. Maybe Cosmopolitan. He can’t remember. What he can remember is Henry Fox’s wide, blue eyes and golden hair. He remembers looking at the close-up photo of him for too long until June cleared her throat and met his startled gaze with raised brows.

He looked for Henry after that. Sneaking into June’s room or stealing the magazine straight from the mailbox when it was delivered. He’d bring it with him to the treehouse in the backyard and search.

Before Alex even had a word for it, most of the photos had felt exploitative. Henry, too young, around much older models. Odd poses and barely there clothing. Henry never looked happy. He never smiled. Alex would never photograph him like that. He never really thought about photographing him at all. Mostly, he just wanted to hang out with him. Maybe take him swimming at Barton Springs, to a baseball game in Round Rock, or ride their bikes together. He just wanted to make Henry smile.

Alex found out later that Henry’s father was a famous actor and his mother was a supermodel, making Henry one of the world’s biggest nepo-babies.

Maybe doors automatically opened for Henry. Maybe he has a trust fund or an inheritance and never has to work another day in his life. Alex is unsure of those things, but he is certain Henry is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

–

Alex lowers his camera as the art director flutters into the frame, tugging on the strap of Emily’s bikini top and sweeping Henry’s hair off his forehead.

“Perfect,” she says before waving in Alex’s direction. “Okay. Keep going.”

Alex rolls his eyes and lines up another shot.

He doesn't really know what the point of this shoot is. He guesses it’s supposed to be playful…a fun day by the pool where Henry has stolen her heart-shaped sunglasses and perched them on the top of his head while she’s taken his diamond-studded watch and is holding it against her throat like a necklace. But Emily’s bikini is practically see-through, Henry is wearing a pair of swim trunks that hide nothing, and Alex doesn’t understand what they’re trying to sell, aside from their bodies.

So goes the fashion industry.

“Did you get it?” Henry calls out to him without moving a muscle.

Alex blinks through the viewfinder. “What?”

“Did you get the shot?” He asks.

“Oh. Yeah. Probably.”

“Good,” Henry says, “my foot is beginning to cramp.”

He shifts, and Emily hops off his lap and into a robe a PA is holding while Henry stands up, stretches the arch of his foot, and accepts his own robe.

It’s all so fast and formal as if they didn’t just spend the last hour dry-humping each other by a pool at a mansion in Beverly Hills.

Alex isn’t sure if he could pull that off, being that close to either of them and acting like it’s no big deal. Things are easier behind the lens of a camera.

Alex busies himself by pulling the photos up on his laptop. He took nearly two hundred. At least one has to be good enough to go to print.

“May I see?”

Alex nods, and Henry steps into his space, pressing their shoulders together before Alex can make room.

“Christ,” Henry says as he peers at the screen. “Am I really that pale?”

“We can fix it in post?”

Henry hums. “Add it to the list,” he jokes, but it’s not funny at all.

Alex knows that no one is perfect, but he thinks the people he photographs—Henry especially—are about as close to the idea of it as possible. That won’t stop every photo he’s in from being scrutinized and edited to death. They’ll airbrush out the moles that dot across his ribs, the small half-moon scar by his left hip, and the line between his brows. Whatever they do to Henry, it’ll be ten times worse for Emily.

“You’re very good at this,” Henry tells him. It’s not the first time they’ve worked together, but it’s the first time Henry has complimented him.

“Thanks. You make it easy. I mean you guys—you two—you and Emily,” Alex flounders. “You look good.”

“Is it the sunglasses?” Henry asks as he reaches up and touches the thin, pink frames.

“Yes,” Alex answers. “They complete the look. Maybe they’ll let you keep them since they suit you so well.”

“I’ll be sure to ask,” Henry says, the barest hint of a smile on his face.

—

Unsurprisingly, it was June that helped him shape his view of fashion.

When he was younger, he’d point to the avant-garde looks in her magazines and genuinely ask who the hell would ever wear this?

“No one,” She’d tell him as she snatched the magazine away. “Sometimes clothes aren’t meant to be worn, they’re meant to be admired. It’s like how some people go to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa. Other people find their art in fashion magazines.”

He reminds himself of that each time he attends Fashion Week in London, Milan, or Paris. It’s an art exhibit; the models are living sculptures.

In the front row of the Dior show at Bryant Park, Alex thinks Henry makes a stunning canvas.

His hair is dyed dark brown, a near match to the cropped leather jacket he’s wearing, only half zipped, his chest bare. Alex watches his long legs in oversized wool shorts as they walk down the runway, where he stops at the end, poses, and then continues back. He looks down at Alex as he passes, tips his head up, and disappears backstage.

Only after he’s gone does Alex realize he didn’t get a single photo of him.

–

They let me keep the glasses, by the way.

Alex frowns down at his phone as he tries to parse out the Instagram DM that popped up on the screen.

He has two accounts—an official photography account and a smaller, more personal one, followed only by his family and friends. Alex knows he isn’t famous, not yet anyway, but he knows that people can get weirdly parasocial, and he’d rather not have to purge his main account a few years down the line.

This message, from a GEJames97, was sent to his personal account.

????? Alex sends back.

The ones from the shoot, the next message reads.

This is Henry.

Fox.

Alex’s frown deepens. Henry has an Instagram account. He has nearly four million followers and posts photos of his most recent campaigns at least twice a week. Not that Alex is keeping track.

Prove it, Alex says.

A few moments later, a photo of Henry Fox in the pink, heart-shaped glasses pops up.

Pez told me about this account. I hope that’s okay.

Pez…..???????

Percy Okonjo.

Percy Okonjo is an up-and-coming designer who is best friends with Henry. They have the entire fashion world buzzing with speculation that Henry will start working with Percy the second his contract with Dior ends.

Percy also was a guest editor for Vogue and had an undefined thing with June. Alex doesn’t know the details, and he’ll never ask for them, but it was enough that Percy followed Alex’s personal account.

How long are you in New York? Henry asks, and Alex feels his heart rate kick up.

Why do you think I’m still in New York?

Henry sends him a photo Alex posted earlier of a friendly Central Park squirrel eating a small piece of bagel out of his hand.

Until Sunday, Alex tells him. Why?

Doing anything tonight?

Alex blows out a breath.

Not yet.

Alex has only been at the bar for three minutes before Henry shows up. Alex appreciates the promptness, it gives him less time to be nervous.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Henry says anyway, leaning in to press a kiss to Alex’s cheek that leaves Alex feeling untethered. “Traffic in Manhattan is insane.”

“It’s fine,” Alex says, “you’re good. You’re…” Alex trails off because Henry is beautiful in jeans, a t-shirt (that probably cost more than Alex’s hotel room bill), and a Yankees cap pulled low over his face.

“If you want to go someplace else–,” Alex starts.

“Why would I want to go someplace else?” Henry interrupts, raising his hand to wave down the bartender.

“I don’t know. I feel like this place isn’t your usual vibe.”

It’s not a dive by any means, but it’s certainly not the flashy restaurants and clubs Henry usually attends.

“A few months ago, Pez brought me to this place in Chinatown. We followed this woman down a narrow stairwell for what felt like forever, light flickering and water dripping from the ceiling. I would’ve phoned my sister to say goodbye, but I didn’t have cell service. If I can survive that, I can survive this.” He glances around the bar. “I don’t fear for my life at all here.”

“You’re in America,” Alex tells him. “You should kinda always be fearing for your life.”

Henry snorts. “I suppose that’s true, but I am enjoying myself.”

“You just got here.”

Henry shrugs. “Then maybe it’s the company.”

Alex ducks his head. “How long are you in the city for?”

“At least another two weeks,” Henry tells him. “I’ll have a good bit of downtime, but not enough to fly home between shoots. I’m trying to figure out ways to keep myself busy. Do you have any ideas?”

Alex has about a million. He’s been thinking about this since he was twelve years old.

“Have you ever actually been to a Yankees game?” Alex asks, and Henry shakes his head. “They’re in town if you wanna go.”

Henry smiles, big and bright, even in the murky lighting of the bar, and Alex feels like he’s suddenly accomplished everything he could ever want in life.

[mrs-barnes-rogers-writes]

The Fate Of A Fae - Part 4

Marvel AU

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader x Steve Rogers

Summary: Natasha Romanoff is a meddling, pain in the ass Sprite, who you wrongly thought would leave you alone once you introduced her to your best friend, Darcy. News flash, she doesn’t and she won’t. Not when she thinks you’re a perfect match for two of her best friends. Could she be right? Maybe. Just don’t tell her that.

“Never tell Natasha Romanoff she was right” - Clint Barton

Chapter Summary: The reader has a surprise caller..................or two.

Chapter Warning: Mentions of past historic abuse.

There’s a distant voice in your head, stirring you from sleep. Somewhere between asleep and awake the voice seems to get louder and more panicked. It isn’t until you’re pulled against a warm chest and the whiff of expensive cologne spread up your nose that you fully wake up. You start to sob into the chest when you realise the voice is familiar.

Tony.

“Kid what happened?”

“I…..” and the crying continued.

“Shhhhhhhh it’s OK, we’ll figure it out, shhhhhhh.”

After ten minutes of Tony shushing and comforting you and crying all over him you’d started to calm down. A realisation washed over you as you realised Tony had got into your apartment.

“How’d you get in?”

“Sweetie, I made the security system remember?”

You pushed back off his chest and looked up at him.

“So you just let yourself in?”

“Oh hush” he replied pulling you back into his chest “I knew you were home and you weren’t answering and I could spell the blood.”

Tony wasn’t a dragon but his father was, meaning the acute sense of smell was passed on.

“Blood?”

“Your feet and legs sweetie.”

You looked down to see your legs and feet had a scattering of small cuts.

“For fuck sake.”

“You wanna tell me what happened?” asked Tony.

“Not really.”

“Can I say something?” you cocked an eyebrow at him, knowing he’d say it whether you agreed or not. “Would it be so bad if you at least spoke to them?”

“Yes, it would be.”

“I don’t know what happened to you kid but”

“Don’t, you won’t get it.”

“Probably not, but you’re not the only one with asshole parents. Sure they weren’t violent but my dad could be a really piece of work. When it became clear at eighteen I was definitely like Mom, and not him, he didn’t speak to me for a year, cut my allowance and nearly didn’t pay for college.”

“Tony, I had to steal food as a kid, this isn’t the same.”

“Hang on, I’m not done, listen to my un-relatable, yet relatable story.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Listen, when i say he didn’t talk to me I mean he didn’t even acknowledge my presence. That Christmas he crossed his name out on the gift tags and instead he passed me an envelope. A cheque for a million dollars and permission for early access to my trust fund. There was a leaflet with it about forced transfer.”

You felt sick. Forced transfer was painful, invasive and inhumane but had been common practice twenty years ago and back. Your parents would have put you in for it if they could have afforded it.

“What happened?”

“Well mom’s DNA turned out to be the strongest and his old age dragon wasn’t as strong as he thought. It wasn’t until I met Barnes that I actually realised how big dragons were, which I know sounds ridiculous. Dad had been select in his friends and made sure they were a mix of types, dragons included but always smaller than him.”

“I’m so sorry Tony.”

“Don’t be. The blood test and Mom threatening to divorce him put a stop to it. I may not know your full story kid but it doesn’t take  a genius to figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” you replied.

“That the asshole family had something to do with your lacking of wings and pointy ears.”

And with that the tears came again.

“They won’t want me Tony. They won’t want me when they know.”

“Doll?”

Fuck. Shit. Bucky was in your apartment.

[scarlettsandmaroons]

it was paradise | n. romanoff

about me | series masterlist | natasha romanoff masterlist

pairing: professor!natasha romanoff x collegestudent!reader

chapter nine | chapter ten: all the love we unravel

chapter summary: you couldn't tell when mrs. romanoff became natasha romanoff; the woman who'd laugh with her friends, or kiss you in an empty parking lot. when did the big, bad, mrs. romanoff who you prayed would take you off her radar, became nat, the very woman you'd beg to look at you. when had the hatred turn to all this?

warnings: curse words, fluff; public displays of affection, platonic relationships, cheesy. unedited.

a/n: im sorry it took so long!!!! this was initially much much longer. but i had to cut this part in half. i had to sneak in this bit of fluff in the story, i think we all deserve it. but anyways, natasha and reader's relationship is just so <333333

"oh fuck off, romanoff!" tony yells when natasha steals the last bit of popcorn. the boys complain after him, clint taking a forgotten piece to throw at natasha. natasha expertly dodges even when facing away and walking back to her small kitchen. 

you took a handful of your popcorn and threw it at tony, "hey, don't talk to my woman like that," you laugh, but not as loud as thor did when he joined in and threw a handful from your bowl at tony. and thus begun the ruckus in natasha's apartment of you and thor teaming up against tony in a popcorn war; clint and steve laughing at how tony tries to hide behind his swatting arms, and bruce trying to avoid the flying pieces of popcorn. 

"fine. no college fund for you then," tony declares after you ran out of popcorn to shower him with, "and don't expect me to pay for your expenses the next time you visit." 

thor chuckles, giving tony a big slap on the back on his way back to his spot on the carpet. "i'm only helping the girl," thor says, "don't talk to her woman like that."

"oh let him have his fun," clint interjects before bringing his bottle to his lips. "he knows romanoff won't do anything to him because y/n's here." 

"shut up, katniss," tony hissed, dusting off the popcorn from his hair, "i'm not afraid of romanoff."

"you saying something, tony?" natasha says from the kitchen just a few steps from where you were inside her open floored apartment. 

"no ma'am," tony salutes, and you all broke out in laughter. 

natasha returns with a fresh bowl of popcorn, setting it down on the coffee table near the foot of the bed. "you guys are cleaning that up," she says, dropping herself down to the spot next to you. 

"hey, y/n started it," tony insists, but natasha only chuckles.

"well, she did say not to talk to her woman like that, didn't she?" 

tony stood up abruptly, pointing a finger at natasha who left no space between the two of you. "i'm sensing favoritism," he pushed. "this is unfair. i'm calling a for a vote."

"oh, sit down tony," natasha waves him off. she began picking the few pieces of popcorn stuck on your hair before bringing your forehead up to her lips for a soft kiss. 

you swooned. 

"i feel cheated on," tony sits down defeated, "can you see this, i can't do that now can i."

"you can always book us that trip to the bahamas," natasha laughs, still looking at you while holding either side of your face close to her own. she places another kiss on your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. and then she stares at you for a moment more before letting you go. 

"did anyone get this on video? we need this for blackmail," clint says. "the big bad romanoff secretly a softie." 

everyone coos. 

"agent romanoff is in lo~ve," tony adds on. 

"the wedding shall be held in asgard!" thor yells.

"i'm not paying for the space travel," 

"you own the ship though..."

"gas cost money, bruce."

"see, steve gets it." 

you and natasha shared a laugh. enjoying the interaction between the five. if you didn't see them in their best tuxedos earlier, you would've forgotten how half of them were professors and the others, massive billionaires. 

of course, earlier, that was all you could see them as: mrs. romanoff's big shot friends who you are terribly far from impressing.

"so what does your mother do?" steve asks breaking the silence after you'd all settled down on the table right at the center of the expensive restaurant tony book you in.

"oh, i—," you looked at natasha for a second, afraid almost that what you'll say next might turn her friends off. way to get on a bad side of people you're trying to impress is to tell them your mother is a drug addict. by then, every attempt you make at getting on their good side would only receive pity. "i don't have one," you resorted. 

silence.

you feel natasha's hand on your thigh. she soothed it. and then she leaned in to whisper, "i'm sorry. they could be invasive," she tells you. "i'll tell them off later." 

you were thankful the waiter came in to save what was filled with them avoiding your eyes and clearing their voices. you hadn't heard what everyone got. just that they all ordered a complete five course meal with fish, meat, vegetables, and everything else. 

you were supposed to order next. at least, after almost a year of dating natasha romanoff, you'd grown accustomed to always ordering first, but this time she doesn't let you. 

she ordered first. 

"i'll take the oysters on half shell please," she started, looking at the menu. "then the shrimp cocktail too."

"any salads?" 

"no, actually. maybe just the caesar salad for me," natasha's hand never left your thigh. in fact, if continued to soothe over your exposed skin. "then maybe pan seared scallops and steak tartare," she looked at you. "rib or strip?" 

you stuttered for a bit, at lost for words when you realized that she was ordering for you too. 

you didn't know what you wanted. you never really do. you always end up somewhat regretting your order every time you and natasha go out. 

but in a hurry, you just utter a, "strip." 

"great. i'll take the new york strip, braised short rib. and for sides, just the baked mac and cheese for the girl please," she smiled at the waiter and you swore he melted when he had to force his eyes off her and to his little notepad. 

and you can't help but smile. 

"did you want anything else?" she asks, looking intently at you but you just smiled and let your nose touch hers. you see her cheeks grow red. "what was that for?" she smiled. 

she was never used to public displays of affection. even something as little as your noses touching, or your eyes looking a second longer than it's supposed to into hers. but of course, neither should she. something as destructive as your relationship should be kept a secret. even the smallest touches. 

but at times like these, when you're neither alone nor allowed, but you still sneak in those rare moments of affection, she swears, she falls much much deeper. 

"okay enough of that, the boy here is getting nervous," tony interjects, making you giggle out of the small bubble you and natasha had encapsulated yourselves into. 

"i think you're getting nervous too, tony," clint laughs but he knew enough to stop when natasha shot him a sharp glare. 

you smiled, soothing over natasha's hand that remains on your thigh before taking a glance at the waiter who was only standing there awkwardly staring at natasha, then at the hand you hold over hers. 

that's right, stare at everything you will never have. 

steve clears his throat. "uh, any drinks?" 

"we—uhm—we actually offer—uh, we only offer wines in bottles for service. other drinks; cocktails, mocktails, vodka, everything else you can get from the bar." 

natasha prepares as soon as the boy finishes, "vodka for me, and one mocktail. what are you having, boys?" she asks. 

"isn't—isn't y/n going to like something with alcohol too?" bruce asks. you would actually, but before you have any time to say anything, tony beats you to it.

"exactly. give the girl a break, agent. she's not a kid," tony protests in your place. 

natasha only chuckles, fixing the napkin that she took off her lap neatly on the table, "i think i know what's good for her, don't i, y/n?" 

"boo!!!!!! give the girl a drink," tony still stands. "give the girl a drink!" 

"no. we're riding my motorcycle home, and i'm not having her fall off my bike," she says firmly, almost like a silent command. 

but you still insist. you looked at her with pleading eyes, extending your arm to hold her fingers. "i want a drink, please," you say. "i won't fall off, i promise." 

"give the girl a drink!" tony chants but natasha's eyes stay on you, her smile, daring, but firm. 

she leans against your ear, her lips softly grazing your lobes, and her arm supporting her weight through her grip on your waist. you shuddered. "come on, dear. won't you listen to mommy? mommy knows best, doesn't she?" 

you were aware how exposed you were. in front of her friends. being at the very middle of the packed restaurant as tony claimed was the best table because of the sofa seats, tony, bruce and clint sitting across from you and nat who were the only ones on that side because steve decided to sit on an extra chair at the head of the table. you were surrounded by people, covered by a few friends who even then you didn't expect natasha would be so open with. 

you almost wanted to complain. i'm only meeting your friends, what if they say we're too physically affectionate in public and it turns them off? what if they're reminded of wanda and billy, the very people we're betraying while we're doing this in front of them?

but you couldn't. this was one of the very rare times when you get to enjoy her physical affection, in public which was terribly off-brand of mrs. romanoff. this was one, if not the only moment when you don't feel hidden, when you felt normal, when you felt seen by the world. when you satisfy the small hidden part of yourself that craves for the domesticity of public relationships. 

"i think she really likes you."

you hadn't realized she was gone until only the memory of her breath against your skin remain. and you remembered you were with her friends. 

you looked up. within the 30-45 minutes of knowing these people, you've come to learn that tony is a very bullshit person. he's the joker, the one who would bullshit his death by making it into anything but serious. maybe through his narcissism, or sarcasm, or jokes. that's what makes him charming. other than, of course, his billions of dollars net worth. 

"you think?" it sounded coy but you were serious. you had to know. did she really like you? or was he bullshitting you? would he build this up into a joke, a thing to make fun of natasha when she comes back? 

no. because he chuckles, and it was more genuine than even his smiles. and for the first time he looks away, and it took him a few seconds before looking at you again, "you know, romanoff called me last week. told me she wanted us to meet her girlfriend," he let that sink into you for a moment before he raises a finger, "you know, one thing about romanoff. she never calls me," he says. "she calls clint, tells him everything. she meets with steve. but that's between them. romanoff and i—we have a more eye-to-eye kinda thing. she came and visited me once, nobody knew i had a child by then, we look at each other for one second, and she understood the entire life i built beyond stark industries," he wasn't looking at you again. he was looking over your shoulder, unmoving. "when she called me first of all, i knew it was serious. group serious sort of thing. and then she told me she wanted us to meet her girlfriend? i dropped everything in my lab." 

your mind still processed what he meant. actually, it was so far from that. you were stuck on the image of natasha visiting tony. or meeting up with steve. or telling clint everything. the little things that makes natasha further from her life as mrs. romanoff, or as wanda's wife, or as billy's mother, or as your secret girlfriend, and closer to just being herself, natasha romanoff, it sticks to you. and it remindes you that beyond the labels, beyond the titles, the names. that she was just natasha romanoff before all of these. 

"natasha dated a few people, but none that we actually heard of," steve clarifies, but tony quickly took his spot. 

"we knew about rogers and romanoff. they had a will-they-won't-they going on for a bit until she got together with bruce. of course that's something we just found out during a party when his face fell into her boobs—"

you choked.

and so did professor banner. 

"she never told us anything. we know what we see, and the rest, well—who knows." 

"actually, we didn't know she was married to wanda until three years into the marriage," clint adds. 

your eyes widen at that, choking for the second time but this time on your glass of water. "what?" you ask. "you weren't invited?" 

clint laughs, "oh no, we were invited."

"wanda invited us," bruce says. 

"she invited us through text. she didn't specify who was getting married so we always just assumed she's either remarrying vision or she's marrying a new man," steve continues. "we assumed the latter." 

"we've always been a vision fan, so we didn't go in case she was actually getting married to someone else," clint notes. 

tony laughs in somewhat a bitter tone, but still humorous, "mind you, we had group night outs, phone calls and we texted all throughout those three years that she could've told us she'd gotten married to a mutual close friend."

"she didn't. and three of us works with both her and wanda at the university," clint losens his tie and slouches slightly against the couch. "we found out when wanda invited us for thanksgiving and said natasha should be preparing the table so we all came assuming natasha was only there to help." 

"plot twist, she's married," bruce finishes. 

there was a silence between your shared glances of natasha just talking to the bartender while being handed two drinks. 

"you take care of her, okay?" tony says. his voice had zero pitch to it. it was low, and lazy, and sincere. "romanoff, spent decades taking care of us. you know, when we're sick, heartbroken, happy, drunk, sad, in trouble. she picks up after us. she holds us together. and she still does to this day," he looks up at you. "do us a favor, take care of her. i think you're the only person she'd let take care of her."

"what are you whispering about," natasha asks, setting down your drinks, just in time for your meals to arrive. she looks at you while sitting down, and bringing the napkin to her lap again, "do you still love me?" she sets both hands on your thigh, completely facing you. "whatever these idiots told you aren't true. do you still love me?" 

you giggled. "i was hoping it might be true, actually," you say. 

"this," tony interrupts. "this is true." 

natasha rolled her eyes upon realizing that what he said might not be anything that would jeopardize the relationship you two have. she lands you a kiss on the forehead before fixing herself to her seat, and assisting the waiter in distributing the first round of meals.

"hello, friends!" 

natasha doesn't tell you much about her friends. but she's told you enough to know where they live, and what her relationship is with them. you know one of them lives very far away. 

this must be thor. 

he came in late. he entered with much energy, immediately pulling you into a hug. you were sure he would've carried you right out of your seat and spun you around if natasha hadn't got out in time to make way for you. 

he still picked you up and spun you around nonetheless, "oh is this the girl?!" he said. "look at you! you're a lot prettier than nat described you." 

you'd gotten dizzy. your world spun, perhaps because of this giant man that spun you around like a kid with his doll, or maybe because natasha told them about you. she told them, like how you used to with billy over the guy you had a crush on in middle school. she told her friends about you. 

"okay, okay, please stop. she's getting dizzy," natasha's voice faded into your thoughts as thor slowed down. natasha was already standing behind you, ready to catch you the moment thor sets you down, and she did. you fell limp into her arms as the world tried to catch up. "i swear to god, she's not going to make it out of here alive with you doofuses." 

while everyone stood up to give thor a hug, natasha had her hands loosely wrapped around your waist, and her chin on top of your head while she holds you still to recover from the unsteadiness. 

"so i see the problem," you hear thor say behind you. you turned around, still within the warm hold of natasha romanoff. "romanoff's smitten." 

you blushed a little. 

"am i—am i allowed to say that or will i be in trouble?" thor speaks when natasha doesn't, looking at the others for backup. 

"you won't. y/n's here. we're basically untouchable," barton says, laughing. 

that's how you spent most of the night—laughing. you slowly started easing into the group. they were laughing hard, and so were you. a lot of times, they were making fun of natasha, the others, they were asking about your life. 

everything was light. and you noticed how they were smart enough not to put you in a spot where you'd have to mention either wanda or billy. 

you see a glimpse of natasha's past through them. they were her family. you pieced that together after a few of their stories. 

natasha was almost silent all-throughout, aside from the occasional protest when tony makes fun of her, or the rare interjections of when she feels they'd gone too far with you. 

but because of all the laughing, you hadn't realize natasha cutting your meat for you, and taking the vegetables off your meal until she subtly switched back your plates which you hadn't notice was switched in the first place. you feel her constantly returning glances, checking on you, watching you. and when you ran out of the mocktail she got for you, you see her silently go off to get you another one. 

"natasha, i'm okay. sit down and talk to your friends," you tell her softly when she comes back with another glass for you. this time, you take her hand that's been holding your thigh the rest if the night, and held it with both of yours on top of her leg. 

"you heard the girl romanoff, sit down," tony agrees. 

you were aware that these little moments between you and natasha were in front for everyone to see, and bask in. but you couldn't help it. you leaned against her, your head on her shoulder and your arm tangled with hers as you waited for desert. 

at the end, what was supposed to be your last solemn night alone with natasha, became a loud one with her friends when they all decided to come over her apartment. 

they all shared a car, going off first while you and natasha takes a moment to yourselves when you walk through the parking lot to her motorcycle. 

you were silent, and walking so painfully slow as if you don't want it to end. 

you spent the entire week together. alone. while you did have classes, your girlfriend was a professor, so was most her friends. she had you excused for a week, getting your work sent through her. while she was on a leave. 

there's never a gap between the times you have to spend with billy, and the times she has to spend with wanda. but this week, with billy's research, and wanda's inability to leave the house without her son for long periods of time, you found your window. 

natasha lied; said tony invited the group to the bahamas with their families. she knew wanda won't be able to come because billy won't. so she just "brings" you. 

and just like that, you had one uninterrupted week of just you and natasha. 

"did you have fun tonight?" she asks, stopping you to face her so she can wrap around you the coat you refused to wear when you left her apartment. you hadn't realized she carried it with her though. 

"mhmm," you say with a smile, beginning to rock back and forth on your feet like a child. her hands found yours to hold. "i had a lot of fun with you and your friends." 

"they weren't too much?" 

"i feel like they'd get in trouble if i say yes."

"your intuition is spot on."

you laugh, "nope, they weren't too much then."

you fall into silence. comfortable, soft, kind. you watch the way the breeze blows the strand of hair away from her face. then it falls back, so you took it upon you to do a better job and tuck it behind her ear completely. 

she smiled at you, holding your hand against her cheek now, warming up your cold hands from the heat of her skin. 

"i want to stay like this forever," she tells you. 

you weren't religious, but every day you thank the lord for every moment when you get to feel the bumps on her skin, or see the mole on her cheek; when you get to feel her lips twitch into a smile, not see it behind her office desk, or in front of the rows of people you're sitting behind of, but through the kiss that you share the moment her office door closes, or the last person leaves her classroom. 

you weren't sure when all your hatred turned into love, when you started searching for her in every crowd, when you silently prayed for her praises, when avoiding her glances became begging for her gaze. when did you seek for her warmth beyond her approval? when did you chase for her recognition besides her dismissal? when did you thirst for her touch aside her praise?

the lines between hating her, and loving her was a blur. all you know was that one day you prayed you'd stop being the one student she saw, then the next praying you'd be the only one she'd look at. 

"stay with me forever," you tell her. 

she was a secret. she was forbidden. she was the sin you've been engaging in for a year. 

you weren't religious, but every day you thank the devil for every moment when you get to feel the curves of her body, and the mounds on her chest; when you get to feel her tongue on your skin, or her hand between your legs. never in front of wanda, or billy, or anyone, but in every moment when one of them turns back, to every time they look lovingly into your eyes unaware of the touches under the table, or behind the counter. 

you thank the devil for inventing sin. 

praise the devil for every bite you take of your forbidden apple for god hadn't thought about  the paradise you'd find in hell when he sent your ancestors outside his heaven. 

you kissed her, basking in the taste of sin, and hell, and your home through the saliva that coats your tongue. 

"i love you."

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

the counterpart

chapter 7 — potion approaching, shield your eyes

word count: 5,8k

i don’t have much to say. only that i’m sorry in advance. hit me up if you need a hug after reading this. or if you feel like beating me up with a chess board. i don’t mind providing you with either opportunity.

—

Imposter syndrome is a behavioral pattern, strongly associated with self-doubt of one’s accomplishments, skills and value. Imposter syndrome is a nasty stare you bear with you everywhere you go — a little sharpened weapon to pierce through whoever you don’t fancy, a chiselled ‘the fuck are you looking at’ for each overly curious opponent – the necessary pettiness to conceal your hesitation. Imposter syndrome is a termite in the steel veil of your presumptuousness, it chews on your facade and recycles it cruelly into a shaky, implausible thing. 

And you can roll your eyes as flashily as you like, intimidatingly chain-smoking between games to convince them all of your mind being just as nimble as your lungs are doomed, a pair of old loafers a threatening statement in its dirty elegance — she’s badass, she’s smart, she’s graceful. Her post-checkmate tremor is entirely her business though, and it should be preserved for bathroom breaks only. No meddling eyes are welcome, except for those gawking spitefully from the mirror. Girlhood at its purest. 

The tournament took place at a local chess club — a humble event within their college’s funding: a rather usual location for a small chess open. The premise smelled of chalk and cheerful hostility: all cacophonous chatter, old chess sets, a herd of other contestants and two annoyed boys sitting grimly by the registration table. They seemed to recognize Viktor when he offered them a nod, and their inquisitive gazes rushed to roam all over your entrance by his side, lingering slyly on your arm, so tightly wrapped around his lankier one in a subtle little tangle. 

Or maybe you were just seeing things. Scratch that, not maybe. Most likely. Probably. Definitely. If nowadays people don’t bat an eye at some not very sneaky public masturbation, then they certainly aren’t grabbed by a mere innocent touch. 

And yet here you both were: full of ambitious malice, hand in hand and grinning — a pair of flawless disasters, walking into the room like you owned it. Both limping: him — by default, you — by delicious accident. If only this snobby audience knew what their sophisticated chess-man did to you in that backseat. You even swallowed a giddy chuckle when someone ran up to him to steal a respectful handshake before retreating to excitedly exclaim a not-so-quiet ‘That’s Viktor. He beat me in four minutes once.’ 

“Now that must be flattering,” tauntingly devious, you managed to offer him a kiss — a little secret placed precisely under his flushed ear, all snickering bliss as you caught a whiff of his hair, then dared to tenderly  push it back. A gentle thing just for him to melt into while the clutter of players kept obliviously conversing. Viktor merely cleared his throat and smiled at you weakly. Precious delirium flowed sweetly out of half-lidded eyes. 

“Not really.” A hint of a laugh as he shrugged, growing a bit contrite when you clung off his shoulder.

“And why is that?” Quizzical, you arched an eyebrow at his dismissive little confession, turning on your worn-down heels to cross the long room. Heard him follow along, soft sounds of footsteps mingling with clinks of cane. 

“Beating a mediocre player in a few minutes is not exactly my ideal perception of great accomplishments,” he retorted innocently. Had you leering at him sharply over your shoulder, showing off a demonstrative eye-roll. Such a smartmouth. Unbelievable.

“Don’t brag.” You huffed, half-annoyed, approaching the registration desk. No doubt purposeful in your choice of motions when you hovered above it ever so slightly. Snatched a pen swiftly out of an unknown helpful hand, felt the weight of someone’s judging gaze on your hind-head as you quickly scribbled your name on a small piece of paper, peeking up to find two pairs of eyes observing you with rude curiosity. 

Those who were handling the registration usually never participated themselves — you remembered that much from Viktor’s guidance.

Both boys looked snippy, with their arms crossed defensively over their chests. Synchronised, as if they were somehow related — but their appearances were too diverse to convey a brotherly bond. Perhaps it’s the snobbiness that made them all look alike. 

You hastily threw your name into a wooden box. His name joined in shortly after. It landed softly in the corner next to yours, clearly separated from the others. How haphazardly sweet. 

A curt humm as you counted the signed papers. Sixteen names — yours and Viktor‘s included. Winners play winners, losers play losers. Nothing special.

“What’s your rating?” the bolder boy inquired carefully. How rude of him to remind you of that little problem. 

“I’m unrated,” you answered sharply. “Yet.” 

“You’ll have to play the lowest rated person here first then.” 

You sighed. “Fair enough.” 

“If the clock by one of the boards happens to be broken — come back here and we’ll try to find you another one.”

“Shouldn’t you provide us with serviceable equipment?” You failed to suppress the urge to tease, hard teeth digging regretfully into the tip of your tongue, biting down on whatever other taunts you might have in there. Viktor snickered behind your back, still fumbling thoughtlessly with a pen. He can ask you to be less snappy later. For now, he had a tantrum to enjoy. The boy you addressed, however, chose to ignore your reasonable reproach. 

“We start in ten minutes. Good luck,” the man muttered dryly, writing something down with an appalled humm. Your hand curled around Viktor’s forearm, softly nudging him to lean forward. 

“I want to look around,” you informed him with a weary exhale — already fed up with that pretentious interaction. He smiled with a knowing nod. 

“I wish you’d stop smoking every time you face a minor inconvenience.” 

“I wish you’d stop scolding me at any given opportunity,” you retorted full of false resentment. Let a chuckle betray your flawless silly act. “But I suppose that’s incorrigible. As are my ways of coping.” 

Such ostensible sass: one could never tame that smooth of a taunt. You still stung him sometimes — and not only deliciously. Caught him watching your mouth closely as you sneered, lightheartedly cruel — a remorseful flick of copper eyes over the swollen pink of your upper lip: his tangible little claim, his whimsy attempt at soothing. He craved resumption, contemplated pushing a punishing lick against your redundantly sharp tongue right then and there — but the ambience wasn’t exactly fitting for any non-covert affections. 

He settled somewhat bitterly for a gentle squeeze of your wrist, so earnestly worried about his hot-headed, fervent darling. And his hand shook — the living evidence of nervousness being contagious.

“Please, don’t be late,” he pleaded, letting go of you with a reluctant little frown. “And don’t run away either.” As if you would dare to. As if you needed that reminder at all. Mama might’ve tried to raise a quitter, but did she really succeed? Exactly. 

So beware, everyone. The ‘quitter’ is coming after you. As soon as she’s done polluting her lungs.

—

The first boy they sent you to devour was oddly skittish. He toyed with his hair a lot, anxious to the point where a strand rubbed a little red circle into his digit: that’s how tightly it was interwoven around his clumsy finger. Confused and grouchy, he thought out loud and refrained from looking you in the eye — not out of disrespect, but out of pure tremulousness. He didn’t look anything older than sixteen and was clearly a first-timer. Almost had you considering showing him some mercy. 

You went easy on him. Not for the sake of being kind, though — it simply couldn’t escalate any other way. His strategy was predictably messy, and he managed to lose both his queen and two rooks within the first ten moves. Playing White didn’t really save him either: the boy clearly lacked comprehension of both attacking and defense. He’ll work on his potential soon enough. After he’s done sobbing in the bathroom.

For now, his hand rested in yours, palpably sweatier than it was during the pre-game handshake. Poor thing. He’ll grow out of it. Eventually. You’ll buy some coffee to flush down the easy victory.

Don’t forget to steal a quick glance at Viktor — the way he sat there, slouched all the way across the room. And yet you lingered to admire the nape of his neck, so teasingly charming as it was, peeking from his spotlessly white collar. White pieces at his side too — his ultimate forte. His opponent — head in hands and frowning already — looked miserably defeated. Good. Not that you expected a different outcome though. 

A regular ‘black and three sugars, please’ kicked in by the time your next victim finished her match.

You liked this one better. Viciously elegant, she introduced herself in a hushed tone, her name being something bizarrely classy you didn’t bother to remember. Her freshly manicured hand started your clock, nails short and crimson like yours, except for the neat part. Beautiful, and she knew it: eyed you just as respectfully from under the row of long lashes, so thickly covered in jet black mascara. Certainly a vision, but sadly not really a skillful one. She still started off strong: with Scotch Game and a polite smile — had you grinning back as you killed her softly with a bishop. Almost made you feel bad for that gentle checkmate in twenty seven moves, but her bitter pout didn’t hold much power over you. She still allowed you to steal her away for an umpteenth smoke of the hour, lovely flushed when you insisted she helps herself to your cigarettes. 

“It’s the least I can do after ruining you there.” You laughed, lighting one for her. How nice it is to sometimes be a gentleman. 

“You’re good,” she praised through a deep inhale. “Really good.” Her eyes gleamed in genuine awe. 

You retreated, hoping she wins her next game. Hastily looked at the nearest clock. Found Viktor through with his match and quickly traded smiles in the hallway. A sacred, sneaky exchange: I won. I might kiss you later. Lovely tacit nothings for you to recall later. 

But the competition must go on. Someone roughly called out your last name. 

…And he was brusque. Unappealingly so: gray eyes beamed with insolence, and an irritating graze of something else — deeper, filthier, slyer. You knew exactly what that gaze conveyed. And it made you despise him. Instantly. 

Because lust only comes in two flavors. First one is flattering — an overwhelmingly sweet thing, all shoulder kisses and desperate confessions mid slow thrusts. Slurred words and incoherent pleas. Sweaty palms, lower backs and temples. Lust like a Depeche Mode song, ‘let me see you stripped down to the bone’ kind of sex. A tremulous gasp at the sight of a bare clavicle. Something tingly, and beautifully salacious. Something you could always find in a certain gentleman’s eyes — so want-struck only for you, flawless devotion prominent in each pretty amber. Something you loved, and welcomed, and requested daily — because Viktor serves his lust with yearning on the side. 

And then there was this. The embodiment of rude, all-consuming thirst — a weapon used to diminish countless women. 

Spread legs you ached to close with a rough push of a heel against his insufferable crotch. Evil, contentious curiosity roaming timidly over your form. A grabby handshake you, sadly, didn’t have an option to refuse. Pouted at the sound of his name — something exquisitely snobbish. Dreamt of twisting those nasty fingers hard. And, perhaps, even feeding them to his obscene mouth. Especially when it spat out an audacious ‘Good morning, darling.’ 

You took a seat, shoulders painfully tense. 

“Don’t call me that.” It was a classy hiss. Your patience is made of terribly thin rubber, and it might, and will snap right into his face if the bastard fails to learn some respect quick enough. And that fancy suit too — who the fuck comes to a regular tournament dressed like this? He must be bold. Or simply really, really dumb. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” Ah, there it is. Both adjectives apply, then. “I’m thrilled to play such a charming thing. Too charming to be good at chess, even.” 

Thing. Gods, perhaps getting disqualified is not that huge of a price for making him swallow a tooth or two? 

“Charming or not, I’m your opponent. Don’t fraternize with me.” Oh, the irony. How hypocritical of you to not practice what you preach. It didn’t mean you’d ever indulge in ‘fraternizing’ with this prick, though. A feisty one, and you were determined to show him to what extent. Eyes flickered angrily to the board and narrowed into a pleased squint.

White pieces at your disposal. Random finally felt kind. Your intentions, however, didn’t. Destroy him. Show no mercy. Open aggressively. All that threatening, standard bullshit. 

You made a move and started his timer. Cleared your throat and watched him meet your pawn with his own, a demeaning grin still plastered across his muzzle. Oh to see it grow pale and scared shitless, to make that vile throat go dry. But not yet though. It’s impolite to play with your food, but you weren’t exactly famous for impeccable manners. Subtle, you toyed with him meticulously slow: let him have his way and build a decent-ish defense. And god was he petty. Kept making these smug, soft whistles everytime you sacrificed a pawn here and there. 

It entertained you. The way he considered each captured piece an ultimate victory, the way he failed to see through your carefulness, yet was so utterly transparent to you. Sure, he knew his game: seemed more skilful than your previous competitors, didn’t rush to attack and appreciated diligence. Only on the board, though. 

But confidence is a dangerous virtue. Especially to those who underestimate their enemy — or pay their appearance a little too much attention. So you budged. If the asshole craved to eroticise you more than he wished to win — you’ll give him precisely that. Knight takes knight. Bishop to c6. Gather up, everyone. You’re about to witness some actual fuckery. 

“Resign,” he spoke, lasciviously disgusting. “You’re not going to get out of this.” 

You kept your eyes on the board, giving him nothing but insistent radio silence. 

“Resign.” Gods above, he’s just gagging to be slapped, isn’t he? “Don’t waste our precious time.”

“Got somewhere to be?” Knight e5. He kept smirking, oblivious to what you’re planning. 

“Yes, in that bar around the corner. With you.”

“I don’t recall making that arrangement.” 

“That’s a no, then?” Bishop takes pawn. 

“Now you’re getting it!” 

Twenty nine moves in, he initiated the exchange of queens. A little compromise he thought he was in charge of. How generous.

“Oops,” he muttered through a hoarse, repugnant chuckle. Leaned his head against a huge palm and fixed his collar, watching you frown with a heavy sigh. Little did he know your rook was about to strike.

“Oops indeed,” you snarled, nailing a pair of malicious eyes into his appalled face. Savored the drop of a shit-eating smile when he noticed the newfound threat, gulping when he realized that running away to c6 wasn’t an option either: your bishop (conveniently moved to that exact diagonal earlier) was blocking the possible safe spot. And when his gaze stumbled, taking in the utter horror of his quandary, you bit down on your thumb, trying to muffle an evil chuckle. He’s doomed. Murdered. Devoured. You only had to lick the plate. 

“Fuck.” He sighed. Hooked a finger into his collar and tugged, evidently strangled. 

“Resign, darling.” Oh, how good it is to return those acidic favors. To push the poison he fed you back into his mouth, hoping he chokes on it. Figuratively, of course. Unless… 

“No.” No? Gods, and you thought your audacity was unbeatable. 

“But it’s clearly a checkmate in one move.”

“Aha.” He hummed. “I can see that.”

“Unless, of course, you want me to finish you off properly. But, frankly, the idea of spending one more minute with you is making me sick.”

“God, you’re so harsh. Was that really necessary?” 

“Was the eye-fucking necessary?” You jerked forward. Hovered above the board with an alarming glance — all blown out pupils and pale lips. The pieces beneath you staggered, completing the furious warning. “Resign.” Another enraged hiss. A husky one — threateningly so, the kind of tone people used to announce death sentences in. Too bad yours was only chess-related. 

He dared to hesitate: froze under your stare as clumsy fingers trembled above his king. Gray eyes snapped open, suddenly reluctant to follow your cleavage. So pathetic in his utter spinelessness. So violently flushed. You could’ve slapped him and it would still feel vastly less humiliating. Too bad you didn’t feel like giving away small mercies.

And he complied. A perfect wimp — he pushed his king off the board and instantly rushed to seek praise in your lancing eyes, scrawling bitterly when he failed to find any. Tried to reach for a handshake but was firmly dismissed with a push— a much gentler one than you intended. A much gentler one than he deserved. 

You rose to your feet with a heavy sigh. Your victory, albeit sweet, still scorched with an exhausting aftertaste. 

More coffee. Yes, that’s precisely what you need — and maybe another helping of nicotine. Preferably a huge one. 

“Wait, what’s your rating—“ But you were already running away, fists so tight the crescents of your nails would probably be engraved into each soft palm for days. Needed to get all that out of your sight before the nearest wall ends up with an impressive dent, and your knuckles with crimson, thick crust. 

Though when you reached for the door handle, haste and breathless, something possessed you to look up. Weary eyes stopped on the table with assigned opponents, searching for your next one. 

And, oh fuck. 

Viktor’s last name was written next to yours in bold. 

— 

How many more of these nervous, picturesque balcony trips can you endure? That number definitely wasn’t a two-digit one anymore. 

Terribly shaky fingers failed to tame the cheap lighter, and you groaned, grimly thumping your jaded head against the wall, letting a cigarette dangle weakly from your open mouth. It stuck to what little spit glistened subtly on your chapped bottom lip, as hopelessly drained as its shabby smoker. Viktor was still finishing his game: you caught him torturing some pretty boy in a checkered shirt before proceeding with your haste escape. 

Viktor. The spark wheel budged to the thought of him when you pressed it, cursing the absolute heck out of the unfortunate thing when it gave you yet another callus, the tip of your thumb now as red as the remnants of your nail polish. Squeezed eyes shut and inhaled until smoke erratically tickled the sore walls of your throat. A canonically greedy first drag. Free hand caught the turbid chain of your pendant and toyed with it in frantic, harsh jerks. 

Viktor. It’s not him you were afraid of — but snoopy gazes, your own, notorious anger and possible interventions. The private tournaments in your room sure did sustain your poise, but would you abide by it when you’re encircled by a dozen of curious contestants? All eyes on him — their decently rated man of the day, and you — not yet a rising star, but much rather a lucky (and, concurrently, bashful) gorgeous mess, armed to the teeth with vigor. Would they mock you if you lost to him? Would they despise you if you beat him? Would they be scared of you?

“Fuck, are you always this fast?” 

You flinched. Smoke got into your eye and pinched at the retina, drawing  a frustrated hiss from between clenched teeth. You rushed to wipe that stinging tear, hoping to outpace the mascara before it stains a flushed cheek. Your thumb took the damage instead — a black smear now squashed atop the red, swollen spot on it. Gods, you really owe that poor finger a break. 

That nosy someone chuckled — familiarly so, with a crude, hoarse note to it. Murky gray irises stared down at your hand, then timidly retreated to the watch on their owner’s wrist. And that peculiar haircut — so instantly recognisable. It pissed you off the most, and you kept peering at it throughout the whole match, wholeheartedly wishing for it to end so you no longer have to observe that irritating rust-colored strand covering the arc of his cocky brow. Pretentious, rich chess-club kids have always been guilty of questionable fashion choices. 

You grunted. “No. Only when I run away from rude ginger pricks.”

He grinned again. You flicked some ashes on his polished fancy shoes. He pretended to not notice. 

“Fierce, aren’t we?”

“I believe I’ve already made that clear.”

“I’m not a ginger prick though, thank you very much. I’d like to think you cared enough to remember my name.” He introduced himself again. Insisted on a handshake, still audaciously certain you owe him one. Dejavu.

You didn’t move. Smoke kept slowly spilling out of your mouth into a livid, misty cloud. 

“Oh please.” His eyes rolled, tongue protruded into an irritated ‘tsk’.

“I get it, I had an attitude. I’m a changed man now. You enlightened me. Now is there anything I can do to appease you?”

“Appease me? I don’t know, mate. Have you ever tried fucking off when you’re told to do so?”

“Not that I can recall.” 

“Of course.”

“Seriously, am I not your type or something? Is it the height?” 

“Aha. You’re what, about five feet?”

“And eight inches.”

“Well, I prefer my men six feet under.” 

He laughed. Took a step closer in a much too obvious attempt at pinning you where you stood — with your back pressed to the wall and his chest in your way, close enough for your nose to wrinkle as you caught a smell of his cologne. The utter atrocity of his smugness. The spark of your cigarette, visible in his pupils. His breath right in your face, so disgustingly warm. Everything he did was purposeful and screamed of cruel contempt: the bastard knew exactly what personal space is. He simply didn't care about yours. 

“Leave me alone,” you ordered, voice firm. Clenched your jaw and squeezed the filter tightly between trembling fingers. Felt the rage fill every inch of your viscera. Wondered if his face would make a nice ashtray. 

“I don’t want to.” 

“And I couldn’t give two shits, so I’m going to ask you again. Leave. Me. Alone.” 

“Then allow me to take you out. Give in already. You’re a smart one — I can’t resist a woman as masterful as you are.” He leaned in with a brazen nod. Sent a skittish shiver down your uncomfortably arched spine. Made you realize just how dangerously screwed you actually were. And yet you didn’t hesitate to hitchhike further. 

“What if I told you I get off to kicking cocky bastards in the balls? Still eager to take me out?” 

“Well, whatever makes you happy. So? Will you finally give in?” 

“No!” You frantically shook your head. “Nein. Non. Ne. Piss off already. Look— This entertained me at first, but I’m at my limit now. I’m done asking nicely, and I can and will get violent if you don’t leave right this minute.”

“Then your next opponent wins by default — because you’re not showing up to your next match until I get a ‘yes.’ Or ‘ja’. Or ‘vi’.” 

“Unfortunately for you, her opponent is already here to collect her.” 

Oh? 

Eyes snapped open when you registered the interference. Didn’t take you long to identify the hard, rhotic ‘r’ of the intruder’s accent. Even sharper now that he stood there, visibly worried — thick brows drawn together into a frown, long fingers resting atop the handle of his cane. 

Viktor. To your rescue. Beautifully hostile. 

“…so I’d rather you vacate this balcony. Or, even better, the premises altogether, since your participation is no longer required. Unless, of course, you’re eager to lose a few more games.” 

You took the opportunity and slipped behind the bastard's back. Caught him eyeing Viktor with an irritated pout.

“We were having a conversation,” he muttered, even more distraught now that you retreated to a good arm’s length distance. 

“Really? Because it seemed to me like you were trying to converse while she repeatedly requested for those attempts to be over.” Viktor shrugged, his lips pressed into a tight, unimpressed line. He held a breath when scrawny shoulders slumped, sternly narrowed eyes lunged to the harasser’s neck — perhaps envisioning something vengeful too. You froze, unsure of where to look: on your confident, collected defender, or on that pathetic, corrupt with anger man. You picked the former. And regretted it instantly. 

Defender. Yes, that’s what he was now — a helper, albeit greatly appreciated at first, yet still pretty much uncalled for. All firm, all ready to go for the braggart’s throat — but what for? Your hands are just as capable, your wit is just as sharp — if not more alarmingly so. 

This role is preserved for you. Only you. The ticking clock, the impeccable menace, the revenge dish served so hot it instantly melts off the insulter’s tongue. And you were so close to dissolving another one, if not for his aid, his chaperone, his valor. Oh, his fucking valor—

It’s you. Only you. Always are, always have been, always will be. How dare he doubt it. How dare he intervene. 

And there it was again. Ugly, crippling rage abruptly twining into your thoughts. And you obliged, ready to be led by its leash — ten spikes of nails poking through palms with concerning force. 

“It’s none of your business.” The prick grumbled towards Viktor. 

“She has a game to play. With me. Therefore, she is my business.” 

You kept spiraling into fury, staring at bedraggled, scraped toes of your shoes. Pondered just how mad you’d look taking one off to throw it into the wall (though someone’s head was an option in vastly stronger preference). Heard a few more insistent ‘please, leave’s, kept crushing the fireless cigarette bum in a trembling fist. Enmity and nicotine are not to be mixed.

And then, a few heavy footsteps later, it was finally over. No boy in a fancy suit pressing up against you, no corrosive banter — it left with that moron, pushing Viktor out of the way. But he stayed urgently gentle when fingers reached for you, worried sick. Kind hand an instant caress between your shoulder blades — the softest of attempts at rubbing the tension out of each column of your spine. The utter confusion in his big, sad eyes when you shrunk away from his touch, offering a deep, spinous gaze from under clumped lashes instead. 

He stepped away, mouth agape. “Are you alright?” uttered tremulously, his tone thick with anguish. He didn’t perform any more endeavors at touching you. Just stood there, a tad disheveled and pale, desperately trying to find the reason for your frustration. 

“Did you feel good?” 

“Excuse me?“

“Did you feel good?” you repeated even more spitefully. Looked askance and kept violently biting your tongue, iron mingling with the aftertaste of smoke. “Surely, claiming me in front of that idiot must’ve felt nice.”

Viktor frowned. “Claiming you? I don’t suppose I—“

“Oh please. ‘She’s my business’? Is that why you did that? Because he was being a dick and you wanted to show him that I’m already owned by you?” 

“Owned? Moje laska, I couldn’t possibly— Why would you ever—“

“Don’t fucking ‘moje laska’ me right now, Viktor. Just answer the question.” 

That did it for him. He stepped away, chest forward. You witnessed the darker shift of his face: eyes back to their narrowed, cautious state, lips twisted into a perplexed, inward arc. Cane rested in a white-knuckled restraint of his hand. 

“You’re accusing me of terribly wrong— not to mention disgusting — things,” he spoke after a curt cough, and you caught another crack in his breathy voice. “I never thought that way, nor did I attack him out of some primal, silly… possessiveness.”

“Then why would you chime in? I was handling that perfectly fine on my own.”

“Because I despise men like him!” He exclaimed, and meant it — pressed a shaking fist to his sternum, as if to support that claim with a vow. “I despise his crudeness, his ugly audacity, and his shameless, unabashed disrespect.” He took a breath, then mumbled in addition, “…And I can’t stand seeing you in distress. It enrages me.” 

You scoffed. “Then close your eyes next time.” 

Viktor stammered. Managed to return your death stare before pretty eyes softened, filling with genuine, all-consuming disbelief. Is that really you? He couldn’t quite place if. That same witty, perpetual tease, that same brilliant mind — his gentle, artful darling? 

Though if that’s your perception of his good intent… were you really ever his? 

“So what, you’d rather have me stay silent while you’re getting mistreated?” he concluded. But his attempt at appealing to your rationality wasn’t appreciated. You didn’t possess any at the moment. 

And maybe you should’ve stopped to consider crawling into his arms, mumbling wholehearted, teary ‘sorry’s against the crux of his slender neck. Maybe you could already foresee the remorse — sturdy, and raw, and endlessly sincere. But you were already committed to the fight. And, of course, to the bitter end — even if it might hurt your own taste buds. Must be inertia. Or the utter horror of your independence being questioned. 

Or maybe you’re no better than a persistent man. Because you fume “I didn’t ask for your help” with a face so furious Viktor winces. Because you add a harsh “I didn’t need it”, leaving him behind in painful consternation. And while he stands there, crushed and bewildered, you don’t bother to throw him a quick glance over your shoulder. 

You leave the crime scene in silence, only feeling something heavy nailed into your back. But it was merely regret, catching you in the doorway through a pair of sad, copper eyes.  

—

There’s no need for introductions when he sits down next to you. His name is a regular in your mouth — you wheezed it out mid erratic streaks of laughter and savored the soft, ticklish whisper of it against his earlobe. Screamed it when he sweetly fucked you in the mornings and sighed through it dreamily when he no longer laid beside you. You thought you’ve tried every flavor of it already: husky, breathless, sometimes upset — but more often cheeky, appeased or, simply, content. 

But now you knew it could sound like a brazen hiss, the aftermath of it still stuck to the back of your throat — a figurative, yet tangible nonetheless lump, preventing you from erupting any more insensitive nonsense. 

He shakes your hand and it feels overwhelmingly tense. Random decides that you no longer deserve to be lucky, and you accept its subtle punishment. Sixteen black pieces laugh at you from the board. Leg drumms a rhythmless funeral march under the desk. Viktor avoids looking you in the eye. He starts the timer. White to move.

 e4. e6. Don’t gawk at him like that. d4. d5. Eyes on the board. Eat another nail, or two, or three — eat as much as you please but don’t shiver so fucking treacherously, and don’t think of his face. Don’t steal worried peeks at that wrinkle between his brows. Don’t denote the slight twitch of his lip. Yes, you’re guilty of that one too. What else is new? White activates the knight. You respond with a bishop. Silently dream of stuffing your mouth with a whole pack all at once. Maybe that could fix you. Sting your tongue a little at its insufferable tip. e5. c5. Don’t listen to his breath too closely. Don’t think of his tender voice calling you soft endearments. 

‘Don’t fucking ‘moje laska’ me right now, Viktor.’ Unbelievable. 

First capture of the game: pawn takes pawn. Pat yourself on the head, preferably with this very board. He hums in that subtle condemnation of his — still much too polite for your atrocious stunt. Queen g4. Knight e7. Watch out for his threat. Lose a bishop and seek justice by taking his knight. Dance a three-move back and forth around his queen and give up by abandoning yet another pawn. Listen to him exhale with a heavy, nasal sound. Gasp at the way he grips his pencil to record the move. Don’t look at his hands. Stare at them. Think of the salvation you used to find in them. Think of the salvation you fucked up by recoiling. Let the shame eat you alive while he eats your rook. Fuck. 

Sorry. So, so sorry. It’s written all over your face, but he doesn’t want to look at you. His eyes have seen enough. He shields them — he keeps his head down. You both castle. 

Thirty minutes and ten moves later you consider ripping your vocal cords out — because the checkmate is unachievable, and you don’t want to be held accountable for a shriek that could break a few windows. Responsibilities. You’re not exactly good with those. You know Viktor sees the calamity too — his temples hurt, and he cracks his knuckles for a thousandth time. Probably chews on his cheek too. You can tell, even if he refuses you a proper glimpse. 

Rook takes bishop, queen takes knight. You’re both left with a mess of lonesome remaining pieces scattered all over the place. No options, just ugly hopelessness, because no one can move — literally. Terrifying silence rings through your ears. Deafens you so immensely, that you almost miss it — that monosyllabic little something he whispers to you hoarsely. And his voice sounds strangled. 

“Draw?” It’s somber and barely audible, and you realize that it’s the first thing he said to you in about an hour. He’s tired, and it’s visible in a glance he finally spares you — face more hollow than usual, eyes two amber voids staring through you with numbness. You nod and stop the timer. He shakes your hand again. It’s devastatingly warm when you reciprocate, and for some reason you decide to savor the feeling. Perhaps because it might be the last time you touch it. Perhaps because it might be the last game of chess you shared with him. 

For some reason, you think of your dorm room. It’s almost symbolic, even — to overlook the debris of whatever it is you had with him precisely when you’re about to part ways. And, indeed, he leaves without you — painfully graceful while you crumble completely, recalling all the dear vestiges your home still hosts: a pile of unwashed mugs, a borrowed shirt and that pretty, lonely rose. 

Viktor doesn’t look back. 

—

taglist: @zaunitearchives @thehistoriangirl @blissfulip @queen-of-elves @vyshnevska

[probablyasocialecologist]

Hiring high-ranking Nazis to test new torture methods on prisoners was only the beginning, however. By 1953, CIA scientists like Schreiber and Sidney Gottlieb—the titular character of Stephen Kinzer’s book, Poisoner in Chief—had initiated a sprawling two-decade campaign of reckless human experimentation best known by the codename MK-ULTRA. A quixotic but well-funded hunt for truth serums, brainwashing drugs, and other mind control techniques, MK-ULTRA scientists subjected countless non-consenting and/or otherwise vulnerable people to powerful drugs and interrogation techniques. In spite of being subject to three separate government investigations, only a small fraction of the total program has been publicly disclosed since the CIA shredded nearly all relevant documents. What little we do know, however, is horrifying. With the help of OSS veteran and federal narcotics detective George Hunter White, Gottlieb maintained a network of domestic and international “safe houses” where he would administer LSD to unwitting and “expendable” subjects such as petty criminals and drug users. Sometimes, Gottlieb’s expendable subjects included other scientists, such as bacteriologist Frank Olson, who was dosed with LSD and allegedly murdered by CIA, supposedly because of fears that he would reveal America’s use of chemical and biological weapons (CBW). The Agency has had more than its share of CBW-use allegations beginning in this period, including the open-air testing of aerosolized biological agents in New York City and spreading whooping cough on the coast of Florida in 1955. MK-ULTRA research was also conducted at university laboratories, such as those of Harold Wolff and Louis Jolyon West at Cornell Medical College and the University of Oklahoma, or Donald Ewen Cameron at McGill University in Montreal. Between 1957 and 1963, Cameron used CIA money to develop psychological “depatterning” techniques on approximately one hundred patients. These techniques included placing patients in extended drug-induced comas, LSD dosing for months at a time, electro-shock treatments, and forcing patients to listen to recorded messages such as “my mother hates me” played on a loop. A multi-million dollar class action lawsuit against McGill, the Canadian government, and the Royal Victoria Hospital on behalf of Cameron’s victims and their families is currently underway. MK-ULTRA later found a home in existing networks set up by scientific institutions and universities in the USA and Canada.

[applcrumbl]

Waitress

Pairings: Pre-serum Steve Rogers x Reader Warnings: reader is treated like shit, sexual harrassment

Author's Note: Ah stevie <3

It wasn’t that you didn’t hear the clicking sounds that seemed to echo around the busy four walls of your local bar; it was rather that you chose to ignore them. People seem to think that because the word “server” is in your job title, they are entitled to have you wait on them hand and foot.

“Hey, swee’art” an older ‘gentleman’ called, tugging on the hem of your skirt. You tried to politely swat his hand away, but he refused to budge. “Fancy doing your job and getting me another pint of lager eh?”

The man was a local, he knew your name and could read your nametag, so it was more infuriating to hear the pet names and flirty advances that escaped his mouth Especially when you knew he had a loving wife and two kids at home. “Right away, Andrew”

The soft pat on your bum went unspoken about as you barged into the kitchen, ready to collect the 2 club sandwiches that table 6 had ordered. Balancing the plates on one of your forearms, and the attached hand, you swiftly headed towards the far corner of the bar. Dropping the pint glass with a soft thud on a table, you continued your journey, not even stopping to wait for the ‘thank you’ that would never come.

“Two club sandwiches,” you said, placing them on the splintering wood, “one with extra mayo. I’ll be back with the baked potato with tuna, and the house salad”

Faces were always a blur when you worked, you were so used to the same customers coming in all of the time, and whenever there was someone you didn’t recognise, they stuck out like a sore thumb. It wasn’t often you got new customers, and the bar quickly became a creature of habit, the same tables occupied by the same people, week after week. The bodies at a usually empty table almost went unnoticed.

“Excuse me, is anyone going to take our order?” A voice said, forcing you to turn around and greet it. A pair of boys, not much older than yourself. It was the larger one who had spoken.

“Hi, yes, sorry. Someone else is supposed to be covering this section. I’ll quickly go and grab them”

Walking back towards the bar, you caught the eye of a coworker. Nodding your head towards the unfamiliar group, you pushed yourself through the kitchen door once more. Returning again with hands full of plates.

“Y/N” Eloise called, tucking her notebook into the pocket of her apron, “Table 7 want you as their server, refused to talk to anyone but you”

“Why?”

“No clue, just hope that you know you’re stealing my tips”

Bringing the warm plates up the small set of stairs, you smiled at the 2 elderly couples. They visited every Saturday at 4pm, ordering the same meals every time. It had gotten to the point that you need not take their order.

“Anything else I can get you guys?”

“No thank you, dear,” Kathleen stated, a shaky hand entering her purse. A singular pound was produced. “For the college fund”

“This is way too much, I can’t take this!”

“Don’t be silly” George countered, “now go and serve those young men that have been watching you this whole time”

A look of confusion crossed your features as you looked at the adjacent table. The same 4 strangers from before staring back at you.

“Hi, I’m Y/N and I’ll be your server today?” your notebook was pulled from your pocket, and the pen nib rested softly on the paper, “Will you be wanting food today, or just drinks?”

“2 pints of Lager please,” the brunet spoke. He wore a soldier's uniform. Broad shoulders, and clearly much taller than his friend. His chair stuck out much further from the table, and his legs were turned at an angle, obviously too long to fit under the old wood. He kicked the foot of the smaller boy he was with.

“And your number.” The Blond quipped, Obviously quite shy.

However, it was much more of a demand than a question, and so you rolled your eyes. “I’m going to need to see some ID”

“We don’t have.”

They noticed your impatient expression. “ Then I can’t serve you alcohol.”

The larger one turned to his friend, obviously egging him on. You caught sight of the badge upon his left breast. ‘Barnes’ it read. You tapped your foot impatiently.

“I’ll just have a club” he stated. Closing a menu and looking ahead. “Steve?” He asked.

“I’ll have a tall slice of you,” ‘Steve’ winked.

His question demand was ignored. You didn’t bother asking if they needed anything else before you trudged to the bar once again.

The end of your shift was quieter, the strangers still laughing around in the corner. You hoped they would leave soon so that you could finish up early. It was 11pm after all, and the manager had gone home, entrusting you with the final clean-up of the bar. You started by wiping the tables and turning the chairs upside down. There were a few hushed whispers before a whistle caught your attention. It was the blond-haired boy again. He had certainly perked up since the first time you spoke.

“Hey, fancy getting us the cheque, love” he flirted, a confident demeanour radiating from his cocky smile. Cheeky didn’t suit him.

You finished with the last chair. leaning over the bar to grab the pad of receipt paper. You copied down their order on the way to the table, pausing to do the maths.

“It’s $12.50″ he said, noticing your struggle. Why you left the calculator at the counter, you weren’t sure.

The cash was produced and dropped into the palm of your hand. a crisp $10 note and a few coppers. The pair started to put their jackets on as you finished the receipt. The man was right, but they were short.

“This is only $11.20,” you stated. If a customer was short it would come out of your pocket, and God knows you didn’t have the money for it. “You’re short,”

“I know,” he said, “ you get the rest when you give me your number”

Part of you felt flattered that a man who wasn’t 30 years older than you, found you attractive, especially when he wasn’t too bad to look at either. But, a bigger part of you was disgusted that they thought you were for sale.

“You owe us $1.30″ she said again, lifting an empty palm at the man.

He must’ve thought he was really suave with what he did next, linking his own hand with yours, and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. The taller boy had gone, patting his friend’s back in approval, “get her in,” he said. Disgusting.

You snatched your hand away appalled, “I’m not for sale. and quite frankly I’m disgusted that you feel that your behaviour is acceptable. Now I’m going to have to ask you to leave, and never come back. You are no longer allowed in this establishment any longer.”

Why did you do it? you were unsure. Men had said way worse things to you in the past. But, they were much older and hadn’t grown up in the changing times, whereas this man looked around your age. He should know better, you thought.

You opened the door with a slam, ushering the small man out of the door, he seemed almost embarrassed.

“wait- I’m sorry” he apologised, “he told me that it would work”

“What would work?”

“Bucky said that girls like confident guys, ones that tell them what to do”

“Well then, tell 'Bucky' that he is a jerk” your arms were crossed and your back elongated. Trying to look intimidating, but failing miserably. “and you can fuck off now, we’re closed”

“I’m Steve,” he tried,

“and I’m not interested”

“You close at 11, it’s 10:58”

You paused, taking a sharp breath. He was right. “Then you have 2 minutes,”

“I’m really sorry about my behaviour tonight, I’m not usually like this, but my friend told me that I had to be more assertive when it comes to relationships. He goes away tomorrow, and the truth is, I think you are stunningly beautiful, and I didn’t want to scare you away by staring at you all night, so I tried to flirt” he rambled. It was a wonder that he still had any breath left. “So to make a pretty long story short, I really want to take you on a date. Just us. Where I can be myself, not some ignorant douchebag”

“I’m not really sure, I mean I’m working early tomorrow-“

“Great, I’ll pick you up at 7” he concluded, cutting you off. “I have to keep some of my newfound assertiveness, and I’m not taking maybe as an answer.”

You just smiled, his face had gotten quite red and you quite admired his honesty.

“I’m Y/N” you introduced, “and I’ll see you tomorrow,”

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Right accuses their critics of the conspiracy they themselves engage in

People on the right have some really weird ideas about their ideological enemies: that we’re “groomers,” that we’re secretly on some billionaire’s payroll, that we hijacked the education system to promulgate revisionist histories, that we steal elections, and, of course, that we are secretly plotting to take over America and subjugate them.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/10/teneo/#i-grasp

The weirdest thing about this is that it’s the right that engages in revisionist race-history:

https://www.teenvogue.com/story/the-myth-of-the-happy-slave-explained

And it’s the right who stole a presidency:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brooks_Brothers_riot

Election-rigging is a right-wing specialty:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/23/state-of-play/#patchwork

It’s the right who pay for fake grassroots activism:

https://www.rollingstone.com/politics/politics-features/raising-them-right-far-right-fight-college-campus-1234636392/

Any time some right-wing politician comes out against queers and calls them groomers, chances are good that he’s spending his free time on Instagram, sending fire emojis to naked boys:

https://www.ibtimes.sg/randy-mcnally-tennessees-anti-lgbtq-lt-gov-caught-liking-commenting-young-gay-mans-racy-69364

That’s especially true when we’re talking about evangelical youth pastors:

https://www.newsweek.com/full-list-texas-pastors-charged-abusing-children-1765910

It’s almost like that old playground rebuttal, “I know you are but what am I?” contains a deep political truth:

https://doctorow.medium.com/takes-one-to-know-one-104d7d749408

Of all the absurd libels of the right, the weirdest one is that leftists are secretly funded by woke billionaires spending dark money to foment the overthrow of the USA. The idea of “leftist billionaire” is laughable on its face: how did this imaginary billionaire make their billions while paying a living wage and providing decent working conditions?

But it’s easy to understand how a group of people who are so positively *aslosh* in dark money — people whose every political maneuver is a carefully planned scheme to separate terrified xenophobes and rubes from their money — for “alternative” covid therapies, apocalypse-ready MREs, “sound money” gold coins, and so. much. culture. war. nonsense.

What I’m trying to say is: when the right accuses the left of being driven by cabals of shadowy, crepulent billionaires and their pathetic lickspittle Renfields, it is because the right is indeed in the thrall of those crepulent billionaires.

Meet Leonard Leo, a crepulent, shadowy billionaire. Leo was last seen around these parts when he was revealed to have been the bagman behind the ultradark money group Judicial Crisis Network. After spending $27m to block confirmation for Obama’s SCOTUS pick, Merrick Garland, they spent tens of millions more on campaigns to seat Kavanaugh and Gorsuch. Coney Barrett was seated thanks to a $15.9m campaign to make an unqualified, unhinged ideologue seem like a viable lifetime member of the highest court in the land:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/29/betcha-cant-eat-just-one/#pwnage

Leo controls the Judicial Crisis Network, which worked with the Federalist Society to allow Trump to appoint a whopping 28% of all US federal judges — lifetime appointments for slavering Renfields who’ll follow his political lead. Witness the firepower of a fully operational billionaire.

Leo’s post-Trump side-hustle is a “Federalist Society for everything” — a secretive, lavishly funded cabal aimed at taking over campuses, corporations, news outlets with an army of “under 40s” conservative operatives. It’s called Teneo, and it was a secret — until its internal memos, videos and other materials leaked to Propublica.

Propublica’s Andy Kroll and Andrea Bernstein collaborated with Documented’s Nick Surgey to report out the leaks, describing how Teneo when from “a dinner club with partisan overtones” to a dark-money juggernaut whose annual donations grew by leaps and bounds (2017, $750k; 2020, $2.3m; 2021, $5m):

https://www.propublica.org/article/leonard-leo-teneo-videos-documents

These financial good fortunes are not the result of excited small-money donors hoping to help Teneo with its good works — it’s a handful of ultra-wealthy sociopaths hoping to use a minority of willing lackeys to project their will over all of us.

Teneo’s network members are a Monster’s Manual of the wildest wingnuts in public life, from Josh Hawley (who wrote its founding manifesto) to JD Vance to Elise Stefanik to BenShapiro to three of Ron DeSantis’s top aides. Also: federal judge who struck down Biden’s mask mandate and the heads of the Republican Attorneys General Association, Republican State Leadership Committee and Turning Point USA.

The stated goal of Teneo founder Evan Baehr (a tech bro turned conservative organizer) was for Teneo members to infiltrate “the House and the Senate, as governors — one might be elected president.”

In a leaked video, Baehr identifies the “woke” enemy he seeks to vanquish, describing a hypothetical meeting between “a billionaire hedge funder, a film producer, a Harvard professor and a New York Times writer.” These four cook up a plan to give middle-school kids “free access to sex-change therapy paid for by the federal government.” The filmmaker promises to make a documentary to support the project. The Harvard professor promises to falsify studies to reassure people that the therapies are safe. The Times reporter vows to “profile people who feel trapped in the wrong gender.”

This irony is that this unhinged conspiratorialism was hatched by someone who was and is actively conspiring to take over the country with members of his secret society. After years in the wilderness, Baehr connected with Leo, who turned on the money spigots. Together, they recruited an “inner core” of FedSoc members “and recruit[ed] them for either specific roles to serve as judges or to spin up and launch critical projects.”

Other shadowy billionaires piled in: Home Depot’s trumpy founder Bernie Marcus, Charles Koch, and Betsy DeVos and her family. The new “Teneo 2.0” sought to “to help members find jobs, write books, meet spouses, secure start-up financing or nonprofit donors and learn about public service.”

Their vision is to create “Silicon Valley of Conservatism — a powerful network of communities where the most influential young leaders, the biggest ideas, and the most leveraged resources come together to launch key projects that advance our shared belief that the conservative worldview drives human flourishing.”

They funnel money to speakers from the absolute depths of the swamp: Erik “Blackwater” Prince, David Brooks, Nikki Haley and Vivek Ramaswamy. New members are assured that their involvement with Teneo is “private and confidential” and the group has kept a low profile — Propublica asked Sheldon Whitehouse — a bitter critic of Leo’s — about the group and got a blank stare.

Teneo’s latest project is to recruit “state attorneys general, state financial officers, state legislators, journalists, media executives and best-in-class public affairs professionals” to fight ESG policies — all the froth you’ve encountered about the evils of ESG are the result of this secret, coordinated project.

(To be clear, ESG is bullshit, but not because it’s bad for capitalism — ESG is a dumpster fire of greenwashing:)

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/15/sanctions-financing/#profiteers

Teneo organizes donors for members who run for local, state and federal office. Will Scharf, who’s hoping to become Missouri’s next attorney general, has received donations from dozens of Teneo members, giving the maximum allowable donation of $2650.

The paranoid style in American politics never went away. From the Witchfinders General of New England to Joe McCarthy and the John Birch Society, there has always been a rump of Americans who are very rich and very frightened and who want to put us all in their place.

For these fevered schemers, the Jack Chick tracts that depicted secret Satanic societies seducing innocent kids through Dungeons and Dragons games were hard-hitting documentaries, and as far as they’re concerned, they’re fighting fire with fire.

Image: Jack Chick https://www.chick.com/products/tract?stk=0046

Tendeo https://www.teneonetwork.com/

Fair use https://www.eff.org/issues/intellectual-property

[Image ID: A page from the Jack Chick tract 'Dark Dungeons,' depicting a sinister society of robed figures gathered in a circle, welcoming in a new initiate. The pentacle on the floor has been replaced with Teneo's stylized 'T' logo. The dialog has been replaced with text from Teneo's 2019 Community Vision report: 'The Silicon Valley of Conservatism — a powerful network of communities where the most influential young leaders, the biggest ideas, and the most leveraged resources come together to launch key projects that advance our shared belief that the conservative worldview drives human flourishing.]

[copperbadge]

Radio Free Monday

Good morning everyone, and welcome to Radio Free Monday!

Before we begin, a number of people sent me the missing persons post for Abby/Absent -- the good news is she's apparently been found and is well, but I also want to discuss the post and why it can be dangerous to link posts like it, which is best done elsewhere.

Ways to Give:

Anon linked to chaosfay, a disabled artist who is fundraising to pay off debts related to necessary home repairs after a January freeze sent a tree into her roof. She has commissions open for quilted items (pins and magnets) and quilts; you can read more, sign up for a quilt, and reblog here or check out what's for sale here.

rilee16 is raising funds to get out of an abusive home situation where their roommate has been aggressive and stealing from them; with irregular work hours and a tax debt due, they also need funds to repair their phone, which is dying, and cover utility bills. You can read more, reblog, and find giving information here.

Recurring Needs:

loversdoom is a college student from the Philippines, studying away from her family, and her parents are unexpectedly unable to support her education; she is dealing with a number of expenses and is now looking at costly medical procedures as well. You can read more and reblog here or give to the fundraiser here.

Anon linked to a fundraiser for their friend dyken, a nonbinary lesbian from Latin America who along with their partner has been having trouble covering bills, food, and mental health treatment; their family is abusive and unwilling to help financially. They are accepting donations via paypal and commissions via ko-fi; you can read more, reblog, and find giving information here.

onedollopofsourcream (formerly thelastpyler) is raising funds to help with food, transportation, medication for their family, and other expenses after a string of financial issues; you can read more, reblog, and find giving information here.

gwydion is raising funds to cover car repairs; ze is disabled and recovering from shoulder surgery, and is $50 short on covering repairs to the power steering, which will mean ze won't be able to drive for months. You can give via paypal here.

chingaderita's partner recently lost their job due to a house fire that also destroyed the house; they're raising funds to keep food on the table for a family of nine, to try and get a supply of water to keep clean and do laundry, and for various bills until they can find new work; they also need to purchase a fridge to store their insulin, as theirs has just stopped working. You can read more, reblog, and support the fundraiser here.

Anon linked to karla-hoshi or Hoshi on TikTok, who is raising funds for cancer treatment for her cat Naku; they caught the cancer early and hope that he can survive it, but can't continue treatment without funding, and they have recently had other emergency expenses to cover. You can read more, reblog, and support the fundraiser here.

And this has been Radio Free Monday! Thank you for your time. You can post items for my attention at the Radio Free Monday submissions form. If you're new to fundraising, you may want to check out my guide to fundraising here.

[specters]

my grandfather passed away recently and my mom called me to let me know he left me a little money (along with everyone else in the family) and the first thing she said was "or you can give it to me so i can pay off the (small) loan i took out for your college education. since you aren't even using your degree" like girl 1) let's not act like you haven't invested x100000000 as much in my little brother and 2) we wouldn't have had this issue if you didn't steal the college fund YOUR mother was saving up for me until she passed when i was young. how about we stop disrespecting the wishes of dead relatives. how about that

[frazzledsoul]

I found an interesting poll on Buzzfeed from a few years ago.

Let's see how this stacked up.

These results are SHOCKING! Luke and Lorelai win by a mile. RIP, Team Dean.

Again, SHOCKING! Mostly because that many people were willing to vote for Christopher, but otherwise the Diner Man wins.

Again, I am BLOWN AWAY by these results! Mostly because how on Earth do people rationalize a Rory/Dean ship working out? Even Marty makes more sense.

But who cares? It's a Team Jess world.

Rory comes in fourth behind Lorelai, Sookie, and Luke and barely outranks Jess. That's weird. I was told I wasn't allowed to prefer other characters to her or criticize any of her decisions. Huh. Funny how that goes.

Huh. I think the whole "stealing a boat because I received a bad performance review" aspect of her behavior is far more concerning than taking a break from college (and no, receiving criticism from someone she admired was not a justifiable reason for her actions, Rory doesn't have the right to break laws every time she's upset).

Ultimately, I'm not sure that fancy degree meant a lot in the long run since Lorelai is basically indifferent to Rory choosing to have other people support her and coast on her trust fund/wealthy lover's money twelve years later. But Rory is a grown adult, Lorelai can't make her go back to college, maybe she should have just...dealt with it? IDK. Just talking sense here.

Affairgate takes the prize here, as it should. No, sneaking around with your married ex and eventually fucking him (and then running off to Europe to cavort around on your grandmother's dime so no one finds out) isn't justified because Rory was bored, lonely, and thought she should be with Dean instead of Lindsey. You don't have a right to another woman's husband just because you want to feel better about yourself. And yes, a summer with a single if financially struggling Jess was a more moral and practical choice in every aspect. Rory isn't entitled to use Dean and Lindsey as her playthings when she's not as good at adapting to upper-class life as she used to be. After all, she has an ability to escape to that life to outrun her bad decisions. They don't. She had an ability to avoid the affair for weeks before it happened and she didn't. So yeah. Stupid, selfish, shallow behavior that helped ruin a marriage, hurt a completely innocent person, and it should not have taken her two years to say she regretted it.

Anyway, got off track there for a minute. We already know how I feel about Yale (not that big of a deal by itself).

Blurting out she was pregnant on her mother's long-awaited wedding day. Yes, that was really, really selfish. Was it the worst thing she even did in AYITL, though? Really, there's so many other options. There's also cheating on her own boyfriend with an engaged Logan, slacking on or quitting all her projects, moving home without asking and refusing to get a job, throwing an unholy tantrum because Lorelai didn't want her to exploit her private life in the exact way Rory wanted and shutting her out for weeks, having unprotected sex with her still-engaged ex even though she knows he's committed to getting married and getting pregnant....okay, other than the affair, the pregnancy reveal is probably the worst thing that she does, but there are so many other options.

I feel the fourth option shouldn't count here because not wanting to become homeless because of termite infestation is completely reasonable. There were really...so many other terrible decisions.

Affairgate is still the worst, though.

I know Luke/Lorelai fans who were very upset about their story because it ruined the endgame they had in their heads, but that's the problem with trusting ASP. I liked it, personally. My expectations were not high.

Rory's storyline was awful and if it's true that Alexis has shot down revival plans because she refuses to participate, I don't blame her.

I think the story has a perfectly nice ending that didn't require a lot of work for fans to dream up the exact ending they wanted and it should have stayed that way.