#just indict everyone

[rosalesbeausderholle]

I've made a new friend who's super into philosophy and so, for the sake of friendship, yesterday I went with her to a talk on film and surrealism, which included a discussion of Lynch's work, amongst others. And sure, the talk was interesting, but so much of these movies surrealism came from scenes where the filmmakers are harming/sexualizing women. It was all so clearly fetish stuff or Big Ideas presented through fetishes and the (male) speaker was all super hyped up about the deeper meaning behind it all. And sure, I'm a person who loves analysing media, but you're not that original if the only thing you have to show that has a deeper meaning is images of violence against women. Sorry, it was profoundly boring and also I just don't care what men have to say.

[maxdurden]

look i'm not trying to start beef with timmy stans (thus the lack of tags) but damn. reading red robin now and you always hear tim stans be like "damian was sooo evil, he beat up tim and tried to kill him uwu"

and like. kinda? like yes, damian attacks him first, but only after finding out that tim is surveilling him and waiting for a chance to take him down when he shows his 'true colors'

like if you actually read red robin, it's very obviously a 17 year old who should know better bullying a 10 year old who is (in dicks words) "bleeding a need to be accepted"

it's VERY hard to feel bad for tim here. of course damian is lashing out, he doesn't know how else to cope!! literally go read batgirl v3 issue 17 and then come back and tell me that if tim hadn't been the bigger man (which he's seven-fucking-teen you think he'd know better than to torment someone half his age) damian would have still been a little shit. he wouldn't have. we see the way stephs acceptance and compassion toward him softens him, makes them able to get along.

anyway, thanks for coming to my ted talk. my point is that i'm reading red robin and feeling nothing but protectiveness and sympathy for poor fucking damian

[poebrey]

Posting this now because I know how often my full recaps make it out of my drafts, but shipping aside and no hate on Christine (in fact I really want character development for her!), and this is 100% not about Spirk either, this was hands down the most disappointing episode of snw so far by a lot. Not just because of this needlessly white and hetero relationship but because of the incredibly indelicate way Spock’s major character conflict was handled? I was ok with it being played for laughs in the beginning with him coming off as a moody teenager but why are the writers conflating bigotry he’s faced since his childhood with his love life? Also I’m really not trying to bring up Discovery because I’m well aware they did the going into the future plotline to never have to bring it up again, but Spock’s sister was killed in a terrorist bombing and we’re bringing up moms being mean at the playground? Absolutely think Amanda suffered through a lot but what the fuck kind of writing is this? I’m glad Spock is seeing things from her perspective, I’m happy they got where they are even though the last time we saw her she was feeling bad about borderline emotionally neglecting her son…., but the way this was handled was genuinely so bad.

[secondjulia]

"I’m very concerned about my client’s right to a fair trial in this case.  He’s being prejudiced by some statements that are being made by government officials. Like every other defendant, he’s entitled to a presumption of innocence. But unfortunately the way this has been handled so far his rights are being violated. And as you know, Your Honor, there’s a wealth of case law guaranteeing his rights to a fair trial, but none of the safeguards have been put in place yet here — in fact it’s just the opposite of what’s been happening. 

He’s a young man, and he is being treated like a human pingpong ball between two warring jurisdictions here.

These federal and state prosecutors are coordinating with one another at the expense of him. They have conflicting theories in their indictment, and they are literally treating him like he is some sort of political fodder, like some sort of spectacle. 

He was on display for everyone to see in the biggest staged perp walk I’ve ever seen in my career. It was absolutely unnecessary. He’s been cooperative with law enforcement. He’d been in custody for over a week. He waived extradition. He was cooperative at all accounts. There was no reason for the NYPD and everybody to have these big assault rifles — that frankly I had no idea it was in their arsenal — and to have all the press there the media there. It was perfectly choreographed. 

And what was the New York City Mayor doing at this press conference, Your Honor? That just made it utterly political. And as your honor knows under Loro v. Charles, the Court of Appeals for the 2nd Circuit has held it to be clearly established that these staged perp walks to the media unrelated to a legitimate law enforcement objective is unconstitutional. And I submit that there was zero law enforcement objective to do that sort of perp walk. There’s absolutely no need for that whatsoever. 

And frankly, Your Honor, the mayor should know more than anyone about the presumption of innocence that he, too, is afforded dealing with his own issues. And, frankly, I submit that he was just trying to detract from those issues by making a spectacle of Mr. Mangione. 

And there are consequences to this. 

He has a right to a fair trial. And I just want to put on the record statements that the mayor made publicly about my client. Nothing saying “alleged” for example. And he said “I wanted to send a strong message with the police commissioner that we’re leading from the front. I’m not just going to allow him to come into our city. I wanted to look him in the eye and state ‘You carried out this terrorist act in my city, the city of New York that I love.’” And he wanted to show symbolism. 

Your Honor, he’s not a symbol. He’s somebody who is afforded the right to a fair trial. He’s innocent until proven guilty. And the mayor was talking to jurors — future potential jurors that elected him. Those are the people that elected him that he is talking to and calling this man a terrorist.

So, Your Honor, I just want to make a record of this and put everyone on notice that this has to stop, and my client is entitled to a fair trial and the presumption of innocence."

From the CNN stream (weird video)

[nereidprinc3ss]

in infinite universes

in which spencer reid picks up uni!reader from a party. you're drunk, and he's in love with you

fluff:) warnings/tags: established relationship, fem!reader, university!reader x professor!spencer but you're not his student, unspecified age gap, um statistic about deaths from drunk driving, spencer is a nerd a/n: this is accidentally so romantic I'm gonna puke

The night is chilly—a still, dry type of cold that comes before snowfall. It’s quiet, like the world is preparing for that heavy blanket of white. Even the pounding bass from the frat house doesn’t make it very far before falling flat at the end of the yard. By the time Spencer gets you to his car down the block, it’s a thready pulse. 

“Thanks for walking me,” you say, giving him a saccharine smile as he opens the passenger door for you. His scoff is a thick white cloud, crystallizing against cold, shining skin, slightly pinkened from the temperature. Spencer is glowing like a star tonight. You don’t know if it’s the blurriness from the alcohol in your system smudging the edges of him, or if it’s just that incandescent halo that always seems to follow him around.

“You know I wasn’t going to let you walk down frat row by yourself at one in the morning.”

You pout and look up at him, leaning close. 

“So you don’t want me to say thank you?” 

Spencer’s mouth is curved in absent-minded affection as he takes advantage of the opportunity to study you up close with darting eyes, entertaining your girlish flirtation, and you in turn get to admire the starlit flush of his cheeks, the way his hair falls around his face and thick eyelashes frame irises that could melt ice. You’re not entirely conscious of the huge grin that cracks open your face, but you suspect its presence when his own lips part, still smiling, like he’s maybe going to say something sweet. Or teasing. 

“You’re drunk.”

At this absolute and unarguable truth, you frown. He’s grinning now as he adjusts the thick scarf around your neck, shielding your ears and neck further from the chill that the open car door can’t block. 

“No I’m not.”

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and before you can process it he’s leaning down, so of course your eyes are going to flutter shut and of course you’re going to kiss him back. The gentle ferocity of it only has you stumbling in place a little bit, and he steadies you with hands around your waist. It’s over entirely too soon. You blink up at him, your shock and fluster betrayed by the visible huff of air dispelled as soon as he pulls away. He’s smiling even wider now. Vindicated. Eyes sparkling. “Gin? Wow. You are drunk.”

It takes you a moment longer than it usually would to decipher how he figured this out. 

“So you just kissed me to prove your theory right?”

The sparkling satisfaction from his indictment softens around his eyes. 

“I knew you were drunk when you almost fell down the stairs a minute ago. The kiss was purely selfish.”

“It’s icy,” you defend, and your heart flutters as he comes in for another kiss. It’s soft and still shockingly deep for being on the street, where anyone could see—although everyone smart is inside, and anyone else is too drunk to care that his mouth is open against yours and the heat of it is translating deep in your stomach. You’re dizzy by the time he laughs quietly against you. 

“What college student is pounding gin and tonics at a frat party?”

The thick wool of his coat bunches under your searching fingers. 

“Me,” you whisper. “I was classing up the joint.”

The final kiss he presses to your lips is sweeter and half smile. “Drunk.”

The murmured accusation shouldn’t make you feel so giddy. Maybe it’s all the gin. 

“Not.”

Another little chuckle warms the tip of your nose and your lips as he breathes it out.

“So you’re good to drive us home?”

You itch to kiss him again, but instead, you respond, “One person dies every thirty nine minutes in America from drunk driving.”

“Good job. You passed.”

The praise is accompanied by a thumb rubbing at your hip through denim. He probably thought you weren’t listening when he’d spouted that particular statistic a few hours ago. 

“Do I get a gold star?”

He kisses your head. 

“We’ll see. Get in.”

On the way home, that last shot hits you. You slump down in your seat and hide your face in your hands. 

“Oh, Spencer. I’m… I’m drunk.”

You feel him glancing at you before he sets a concerned hand on your thigh. 

“You okay?”

Morosely you nod. 

“Yeah. I took a shot with this… Delta Phi Epsilon guy, right before you got there. I wasn’t gonna, but he was like, no, you have to! And now I realize that was dumb.”

Spencer’s hand finds the back of your head, stroking your hair. 

“Do you know what I’m going to say about frat boys pressuring you to drink?”

“It wasn’t like that. He was really nice.”

“I’m sure he was,” Spencer says dryly. “Lots of men become really nice when they think they might have something to gain.”

“I thought he was gay!” You laugh, uncovering your face. “Sorry, dad. I won’t drink alcohol or talk to boys anymore.”

Spencer makes a face and you know you’ve successfully traded pounds of flesh. 

“If you call me dad again I’m making you take an abnormal psych class.”

You give him a lazy smile which he only takes his eyes off the road for a few seconds to admire. 

“I’d take abnormal psych if you were my professor.”

That perpetual upturn at the corners of his perfect mouth flickers wider. 

“Wow. Does gin make you sexually frustrated?”

“It makes me lazy. The professor-student thing is really low hanging fruit.”

“Yeah, it is. You know I’ll expect better material from you once you’ve sobered up.”

You sigh and let your head loll to the front again, studying the tunneling road through the windshield. A few flakes slash the headlights. Your mind wanders. You don’t bother reeling it in. 

“I’m really glad I’m not your student. I’d have the worst crush on you.”

Spencer casts you another side-long glance before adjusting the rear-view mirror. 

“You don’t have a crush on me now?”

“Of course I do. But you like me back. If I was your student you’d never look at me like that. I would just have to pine after you and fall in deep unrequited love like all your other female students.”

He hums skeptically. 

“I don’t know what I’d do. I can’t imagine not being in love with you.”

“There are universes where you’re not. There are infinite realities where I am your student and you don’t like me back and you’re dating other girls who aren’t me and you’re saying this exact stuff to them.”

“True. There are also infinite realities where I find you and I fall in love with you.” Spencer reaches over again, taking your hand and settling them, joined, in your lap. “For each trillionth of a billionth of a second of the life I’ve lived thus far, there are infinite universes which exist solely so I can fall in love with you in a new way. Over and over again. There’s not a choice I could make in any timeline, or in any universe, that doesn’t lead an infinite number of me’s to an infinite number of you’s.” 

The engine hums. The tires roll. 

Other than that—it’s dead silent. 

Because how could he ever expect anyone to respond to that?

You slink low in your seat and bring his hand to cradle your face, warm against your cheek. 

“I hate you,” you mumble. Spencer strokes your jaw absentmindedly, not at all concerned by your dramatics. 

“You hate me? I just said I love you.”

“No, you did not. You said th—I don’t even wanna call it romantic. Romantic doesn’t—I don’t even know what that was. You can’t just say things like that, Spencer! You can’t just casually say stuff like that to me, and especially not when I’m drunk, because I’m gonna start crying!” 

The last word pitches up and perfectly illustrates your point as tears begin to roll down your cheeks—still nipped by the cold. 

Spencer quickly pulls the car off to the side of the abandoned road. 

He’s all affection as he twists to face you and take your face in his hands properly, thumbing away tears. 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

“You j-just love me so much,” you sob.

“Yes,” Spencer laughs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I do. I love you so much. I didn’t mean to make you cry, sweetheart.”

“You—you don’t even realize, that you said the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to anyone, and you love me more than anyone’s ever loved anyone, and—and—”

You cut yourself off with another hot wave of tears and a shuddering cry. 

“Oh, my girl,” Spencer coos through an adoring little laugh as he pushes hair out of your face. “You are so drunk, baby. Come here.”

You let him undo your buckle and pull you across the console-less seat (thank you, vintage car) into his arms. For a minute or two you can hardly speak, crying into the warmth of his jacket as he holds you. 

Eventually, you manage to raise your head and pull back enough to look at him. Immediately he’s assessing you with those soft eyes, watching how you wipe away whatever tears didn’t soak into his clothing. Under his watchful gaze, you exhale a sniffing laugh. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

It’s so immediate you’re knocked off balance again. “Well—you were just being nice, and I—”

“I do love you more than anyone has ever loved anyone.”

Usually, you dislike being interrupted. 

In this instance, you’ll let it slide. 

It’s simply too earnest, too honest as his eyes dart between yours like he couldn’t contain it. Like you said it and the thought struck him right in the face—an obvious truth he hadn’t considered before. 

“In infinite universes?” You sniffle. 

“In infinite universes,” he agrees. 

Both of you notice the snow has started to come down outside. Over the course of a few silent minutes, it gets heavier and heavier—a soft hail, sheets of whispering white. 

You’ve never been afraid to break the silence with him. 

But maybe if you weren’t drunk you could keep your questions to yourself. 

“How many snowflakes are we looking at?”

Spencer hesitates, drawn from some kind of hypnosis. 

“Hard to be sure. Heavy snowfall like this could easily put us at six inches within the hour. In that case we’ve watched around point two inches fall. Visibility is probably reduced to about a quarter mile… point two inches across a square quarter mile is a hundred and seventeen thousand five hundred square feet of snow, average density of flakes at this temperature being about three kilograms per cubic foot of snow, and a snowflake weighs maybe… point zero zero zero zero zero two kilograms, so, roughly… very roughly… we’re looking at one hundred and forty two million snowflakes. That’s my best guess.”

You look up at him from where you’d been resting your head on his shoulder. 

“You’re the coolest person ever.”

He blushes. 

Tries to reply. 

Looks back out the window and huffs a nervous laugh, like you’ve flustered him. 

“Lots of people could do that. The math isn’t too complicated. It’s also probably wrong.”

A slow smile blossoms on your face. 

“You’re never wrong. So… what percentage of infinity is a hundred and forty two million?”

“Uh… undefined,” he laughs, looking back down at you. “But… in tangible terms, which is inherently contradictory because infinity is completely intangible, and actually pretty meaningless to mathematicians—more of a philosophical concept than a numerical one… it is a very small fraction. It’s nothing.”

“I don’t want philosophical,” you murmur, reaching up to graze your knuckles along his cheekbone. “I want hard numbers.”

He catches your hand and holds the tips of your fingers to his lips as he thinks, watching hundreds of millions of snowflakes falling from the wide black heavens through narrowed eyes. 

“A googol is written as a one followed by a hundred zeros, and a googolplex is a one followed by a googol of zeros. That’s the largest named number we have. It surpasses the estimated number of atoms in the universe. It’s too large to conceptualize. Mathematicians don’t really have any practical use for numbers above one trillion, but the largest number you’ll find in a dictionary and which might be formally accredited is a centillion, which is a one followed by three hundred and three zeros. It’s bigger than a googol but hardly a fraction of a googolplex. But—okay, we’re setting aside the conceptual numbers. What was your question?”

Your head spins as you laugh. 

Too much gin. Too many IQ points. 

“Infinity divided by, uh… the number of snowflakes I can see right now.”

The engine is still on—heat blows steadily, warming your arm through a coat and sweater, and whatever it can’t reach is warmed by Spencer. 

“Right. Okay. Well—to put it into perspective, with snowflakes, you have around one septillion that fall each year. That’s twenty four zeros, so… a lot. Are you with me?”

“No.”

“Great. So, a hundred and forty two million is basically infinity.”

This earns a clumsy, drunken laugh from you, and he smiles like he’d been hoping for that. 

It’s so warm in the cab of his car. It’s so warm under his gaze. 

Outside, the snow continues to fall. 

For each flake, there is a world where you and Spencer fall in love. And in the grand scheme of things, you’re not looking at very many. 

In infinite universes, you’ll find each other. For eternity. 

You’d be happy with just this one. 

[lamuradex]

It's been rattling around my head recently that Discworld is almost anti-whimsy, and I mean that in a good way.

Whimsy, as I define it, is when something magical is put in just to wow the reader. A magic thing that doesn't really effect the story, but its fantastical. Pots cleaning themselves? Moving paintings? A fantastical creature used as set dressing? A spell that does something cool but we'll never hear about it again? What do they mean? Why are they there? Doesn't matter, we're moving on.

But Discworld always applies Logic to these things.

e.g. The old idea of all dwarfs having beards? Ha ha, even the women have beards. How silly.

But that means all dwarfs are men. But there are female dwarfs, right? Are they happy being men? What if you gave one the chance not to be a man? Oh, sure, they'd still have the beard, the helmet, the axe, those are cultural, but what if a dwarf wanted to be a woman? How would other dwarfs react? Would there be biting insults? Snide remarks? Jealousy from other female dwarfs trapped in their society? What if the Low King were a woman? What then?

Pratchett always had this tenacity to follow a whimsical idea until it was ground down in its own grim reality. It's like those old conversations about what would really happen if Superman caught you falling from a high building. You'd smash on his arms because you're still hitting something indestructible at terminal velocity. But the comics would never show that.

Pratchett shows that.

Introduces a werewolf? She has a constant identity crisis and feels like a dog sometimes, between human and wolf, and she's discriminated against in places for being undead. A conman running a bank? Forces everyone to realise how useless gold really is in a scathing indictment of economics. Death becomes Santa? But WHY DOES THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL NEED TO DIE? WHY THE UNFAIRNESS IN THE WORLD? WHY?

What can the harvest hope for, if not the care of the Reaper Man?

It's what sets these stories apart from so many others. Magic is never the solution, reality is usually the solution. And little is introduced without Pratchett delving the idea to its depths, sooner or later.

[jingerpi]

the thing about minorities being rude online is it's usually a defense mechanism to keep terfs/racists/general bigots away and is not, in fact, a moral indictment of the person's character. not that everyone who acts mean has to be secretly niceys in real life but I feel it's worth mentioning that a lot of us are, you'd probably be surprised how many people who express violent sentiment against bigotry are super kind and chill people. it's just you know, bigotry is bad, and if you aren't vocally abrasive to bigots there are genuine and dangerous consequences.

[avelera]

PSA: You should question news articles that make you not want to vote

Hey Tumblr friends, but especially young Americans in this, the year of our Lord 2024.

Unfortunately, it is an election year.

Unfortunately, a US election year becomes everyone's problem, and yes everyone else, we are very very sorry that you have to deal with our nonsense.

But in all seriousness, the level of propaganda that's going to be flung around on all sides is going to reach peak levels this year for the English-speaking internet in particular. There's going to be a lot of influence operations, on all sides, and yes including on sides you agree with but they are still influence operations.

Source: I am speaking as a cybersecurity professional who also did a great deal of work in election security.

So, here's what I am going to ask you to do. What I am going to beg you to do: be careful of any article that makes you think there's no point in voting.

That's it. I'm not going to tell you who to vote for, or how to think, or that you should trust or distrust every article out there. I don't care about that. I care about whether or not it makes you think you shouldn't vote.

A lot of influence operations are about making you feel like there's no point. That both sides are just as bad as the other. The the election is falsified. That you can "protest" by not voting (false: you will simply not be counted and your voice will be ignored). All sorts of reasons not to vote.

No matter what you do, what you believe, or who you trust, you really really have to vote this year, and every year, and you need to not listen to articles that say there's no point because among those articles are in fact active foreign influence campaigns trying to promote one side or the other for their own reasons, I am deadly serious right now.

(More context, sources, and examples sources below the cut.)

In 2016, Russian influence operations were focused on tearing down Hillary in order to specifically depress voter turnout among young men of color in the belief that this would help Trump get elected.

From the article: "“Buried literally in the middle of the indictment is a paragraph that should jar every American committed to the long fight for voting rights,” Anders wrote in a statement. “The Russians allegedly masqueraded as African-American and American Muslim activists to urge minority voters to abstain from voting in the 2016 election or to vote for a third-party candidate.”

This is the flavor of influence campaign that has been proven, that does exist, and is the sort of thing that does numbers here on Tumblr.

Things like the situation in Gaza, for example, are incredibly fraught situations. Articles don't even need to lie about facts on the ground there to make people feel hopeless and angry. Again, I am not telling you who to trust or not trust when it comes to news sources. But if an article about this event, for examples, makes you think or even outright tells you, "There's no point to voting, both sides are awful, I just shouldn't bother." You need to pause and at least consider that this might be an influence operation. You need to think critically. You need to check sources. You need to think about the world you want to live in, to vote for, and who might not want that world to happen for any variety of reasons.

Protesting by failing to vote isn't a real thing.

Old politicians ignoring young voters because they famously do not bother to vote is absolutely 100% a real thing. It is why so many policies that are popular with young people are low priority for politicians: they are not afraid of losing the young vote because no one plans on having it in the first place when it's never there in big enough numbers to matter.

So please, please, read what you want. Believe what you want. Follow your heart and your brain and whatever other organ you want to think with. I'm not here to tell you who is right, wrong, trustworthy, good, or bad. I'm just here to tell you that despite all of that, whatever you read, you must vote in your elections, no matter where you are in the world and you must not listen to voices that tell you not to as a protest.

[wilwheaton]

shitler's iowa "win" in context

56K Christofascist losers (out of 752K voters, 115K of whom actually went to the caucuses) picked their own fascist loser to be the loser in November.

The narrative they are trying SO HARD to push on us is bullshit. This isn't some kind of landslide victory over a tough field. He *barely* topped 51% against the most pathetic field of weak candidates who fell all over themselves to not criticize him or even tell the truth about him. And look at the roughly 700K voters who stayed home or picked someone else. That's a big part of this story I am not seeing.

America hates this guy and everything he stands for. Yeah, there's a lot of white supremacy in the Republican party, and they have exerted minority rule for a long, long time. They have a loud and angry base, and an entire propaganda network dedicated to pushing their lies. AND STILL they and their policies aren't popular. Their leader is indicted on 91 felony counts, will almost certainly go to prison, and is so feeble he can't risk facing anyone but his most sycophantic (ever dwindling) audiences, lest he shit himself and forget who he's running against.

He's dangerous as fuck, but he's a massive loser and we can beat him again, just like we did in 2020 and 2022 when his hand-picked lunatics were defeated all over the place.

Do not get discouraged and think that this means America has suddenly forgotten about all of his violence, chaos, cruelty, corruption, and crimes.

Remain vigilant, check your registration, confirm your registration, and make sure you and everyone you know turn out to protect America and the world from this piece of shit.

[batboyblog]

I'm sorry, Mr. President

As the last full day of Joe Biden's Presidency draws to a close I'm dealing with a great deal of sadness.

I won't rehash it all, but Joe Biden was the most progressive, the best President of my lifetime, consistently delivering big wins that as a Democrat I never expected to see pass through Congress.

But we let him down, and in letting him down, let ourselves down. Four long years of Trump we were tired, we were tired of always being plugged in, always reacting always fighting back. For millions of us we wanted a return to a politics that could take the day off.

In our tiredness and naivete we assumed that sooner or later the truth would just win out. We reassured ourselves that public perception of the economy always lagged behind reality, that low unemployment, rising real wages, and cooling inflation would all mix together and sail Joe Biden to a second term. We were at peace around the world, unemployment hadn't been lower since the 1960s, we'd passed infrastructure a thing everyone had been talking about for 15 years.

We were tired, and we in our weakness looked for someone else to do the job. Surely the news media would report reality we thought, surely someone will....

We let him down, I let him down. I worked really hard to elect Kamala Harris President, I believe from the bottom of my soul she would have been very good at it. However my efforts.... I see now I should have put the level of effort I put into working to elect Harris I should have put in every day of Biden's Presidency.

We were the final girl in a horror movie, having killed the movie monster we drop our knife only to have Michael Myers sit back up. We thought the resistance was over, silly us, it was just the lull in the action.

Every day of Biden's Presidency false narratives about him "too old" "doesn't do anything" "what about student loan debt!" "strike breaker!" "genocide Joe" or the economy "look at the price of milk!" "eggs!" "the worst economy since the great depression!" etc

and for most of 4 years our push back was weak and worse we didn't push OUR message, the truth. Only when it was too late, and we kept looking for the law to save us from Trump, surely once he was indicted, once he was convicted! once.... no because there was no effective machine to push that message to people over and over and over again. There was a machine made up of so many people, boosted by TikTok and Twitter to push the lies about Joe Biden

but the damning truth is we let ourselves down, we got weary as the nice church ladies would always warn me, don't get weary now, we did, we got tired in the work and when you get tired, when you grow weary, you lose and we lost.

I'm really sorry to President Biden, Vice-President Harris and everyone else, I didn't do everything I could, I know I did in 2024 but I should have done more in 2021, 2022 and 2023, that is clear.

It'll be hard to find the energy I know and I also know my own efforts alone mean very little, but I will try, every day of the next long hard 4 years to fight, to not let the other side ever ever EVER again have all their own way.

[arkangelo-7]

Okay, but, imagining Clark Kent and Lois Lane, ace reporters, being in charge of moderating the presidential debate is fucking hilarious.

Like—it’s a shit show from the beginning. Lois is too much of a boss bitch to allow anyone to talk over her and you bet her ass she’s turning off the mic the MOMENT one of the presidential nominees goes over their time limit or tries to interrupt her.

She also religiously fact checks both parties right in the middle of their rebuttals, and it gets so bad that she actually ends up debating both the nominees at one time. Total chaos. No one has any idea where she stands politically because she’s just arguing with everyone and calling out the BS on both sides of the aisle.

And then there’s Clark.

Clark, who, don’t you forget, is actually a damn good reporter. (You don’t skip that much work without getting fired if you aren’t just fucking spectacular at your job, this guy’s got to be like the Kobe Bryant of reporting.) Even though he’s not entirely sure that he should be moderating a presidential debate (he’s literally an illegal alien and has, technically, been illegitimately voting in elections since 2008), he ends up doing very well.

Clark asks a lot of insightful and relevant questions, but gets so irritated when neither of the candidates actually answer the damn question that he has to take a five minute break to keep from burning the studio down with his heat vision. He’s also not as effective as one would think at corralling Lois, which means she spends half the night drilling into these presidential candidates while Clark is in the background trying very hard not to loose his shit.

The debate ends with two thoroughly angered politicians, an indictment by FOX news, a cease and desist from CNN, a formal twitter apology from the Daily Planet, and two very pissed off (but patriotic) reporters.

[f1ghtsoftly]

Upon reflection, it was so damaging in childhood to be expected to preform at the same level as everyone else while being abused. I had so many embarrassing conversations with adults in my life about why I did this, why I was messy, why I was late all the time, why I didn’t get work done. Telling the truth would mean a CPS call that would yield nothing but a brutal beating the next day. Sorry, I was shaking when I woke up and could barely get out of the house because there was screaming so loud it shook the walls to my bedroom. Sorry, my sister was locked outside like a dog last night, I had to wait late to sneak her out a snack. Sorry, I’m afraid to ask my parents because of how they will react.

I really can’t overstate how much I dislike stories about magical poor kids, disabled or otherwise marginalized kids somehow preforming exceptionally under very difficult circumstances, because even though sometimes that does happen, it is a vanishingly small amount of kids that can even make something of that talent or skill after they display it. It is simply too much to ask a human being to continue steady work while caring for addicts, while getting sexually abused, while repeatedly not being accommodated for disability, in the aftermath of severe bullying and assault.

It is so brutally, brutally unfair that our society sees working hard through abuse, homelessness, unaccommodated disability, illness and poverty as some kind of badge of honor and not what it really is, a blistering indictment of how our society expects someone living in a shelter to work just as hard as someone in a stable home and have the same resources and blames those who fail to meet expectations with less opportunity, lower wages and social scorn. I can’t express how inhumane it is.

I remember a friend of my sister’s who was r*ped by an older boy in my grade. She was taking some advanced classes and the school was “unable” to separate them and keep her in advanced classes. I remember how anyone expected her to learn in that class but she would also be blamed if she didn’t preform well. No college would get a note explaining a poor grade or a poor semester due to retraumatization from abuse. Her failure to work through humiliating and traumatizing circumstances would mean a loss of educational attainment and potentially a worse transcript.

A lot of words are thrown around about victim blaming and there are very real cases, like Amber Heard, where women are attacked for coming forward or defending themselves against abuse-but another pernicious form of victim blaming comes from expecting someone to trudge through the unthinkable and label them as sick, as failures, as mentally challenged or just not good enough when they inevitably fail.

[myfictionaldreams]

Day 14: Uniform - Natasha Romanoff

Summary: You worked for SHIELD and had a huge crush on Natasha, so what do you do when she corners you one day, begging for your help as her zipper is broken and she's struggling to remove her uniform.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, anxious!reader, mutual pining, kissing, flirting, fingering, oral

A.N: Sorry this is a day late!

masterlist 📚 

kinktober masterlist😈 

AO3 Link 

“I need your help”, came the sultry feminine voice from your bedroom door, completely snapping you out of the fantasy world you were currently daydreaming about from the book in your hand.

You knew who was there before turning in her direction in shock and surprise. “Help? Me? You need me?” your cheeks warmed at your noticeable stutter with questioning as you looked at the beautiful red-haired woman standing at your door. Natasha Romanoff was smirking at you with her hand on her hip and wearing the tight-fitting black widow suit, recently returning from a mission. She looked dangerous and deadly, but from what you could see, none of her weapons were attached to her anymore, even though she was a weapon. 

Natasha tilted her head to the side, her eyes flicking across the room, taking in every detail of your bedroom, and you wished you had cleaned up before she arrived. Standing nervously from your bed, your book is thrown onto the bedside drawer without marking the page with the urgency to give the woman your attention.

She doesn’t say anything; she just continues to look at you with her piercing eyes before nodding her head in the opposite direction, a sign that she wants you to follow her down the hall. You were a SHIELD agent and are currently staying at the Avengers headquarters as you continue to train for missions. You’d made some good friends here and enjoyed finally being able to use your skills for something that mattered.

This was all until you realised that the Avengers themselves actually lived there, not just the agents. You assumed they had their own homes for privacy, but this was not the case, so day after day, you had to see people like Natasha who could casually walk into your bedroom. Your crush on the Avengers was rampant, having admired her since before even joining the institute. Who wouldn’t find her attractive? She was among the most fierce and beautiful women you’d ever seen.

Natasa, ever the spy, was well aware of the effect she had on others and, most of the time, enjoyed shooting down anyone who attempted to flirt with her, walking away without a glance back at them. But not you. Never you. It is evident to everyone who worked at the  Avengers headquarters that you had a deep-seated crush on Natasha, from the fleeting glances out of the corner of your eyes or how you would stammer and stutter over your words when she was close by. You were fascinated with her, but rather than being a strong, independent woman, you resorted to being a nervous wreck, hardly even looking her in the eye because you were so anxious to talk to the beautiful woman.

This only became a fun game for Natasha, who found your crush incredibly endearing, cute even and found any excuse possible to try to talk to you, even adding your name to missions so that she knew you were close by. The more time she spent with you, the more she developed her crush; she was just better at hiding it. It was a fun little game at your expense, and today, Natasha was hoping it would be the end to it all, bored with the teasing.

Natasha walked confidently down the hall, through a set of double doors and into the Avengers section of the building. You nearly tripped over your feet, trying to look around at the area you’d not been to before she halted in front of a door, entered a key code and walked in. The weapons and expensive dress decorating the indicted where she’d taken you. You paused on the threshold to her bedroom, unsure if she meant for you to follow her in here, but she urgently waved you further so she could close the door.

Hiding your trembling fingers behind your back, you turned towards Natasha, your eyes wandering above her head as you couldn’t stomach looking into her beautiful face. “So, um, what do you need help with, Miss Romanoff?”

Natasha tried not to grin at the formal way you addressed her. “It’s pretty embarrassing, actually”, she began, her posture changing completely as her shoulders hunched slightly inwards whilst curling some of her red hair behind her ears to appear as if she was embarrassed. “My zip snapped during the mission, and now, I can’t remove my uniform, and the material has been specially made, so I can’t just cut it off”.

Your mouth suddenly filled with saliva as you automatically glanced at where her zipper stopped, just above her cleavage. Once you realised you were staring, you quickly looked back down to the ground, finding the carpet incredibly interesting all of a sudden.

“Why are you asking me for help and not the seamstress?” you asked when you finally found the courage to find your voice.

“The seamstress doesn’t work on Saturdays, and you’re one of the only people I trust here, so I need to hold the two pieces of material together at the top, and you somehow shimmy the zip down”.

There was only white noise blasting through your head at her request, and without giving yourself time to overthink, you closed the distance between each other. The tips of your shoes brushed against hers as you lifted your fingers to grab the zip buckle. Natasha could see the tremor in your fingertips as she grabbed the two sections of material and tried to squeeze them together.

It was difficult at first to grab the metal, especially as your hands began to sweat, but ever so slowly, the zip descended lower, inch by inch. More of her skin began to be revealed. Her cleavage, her sternum, then lower over her navel until the very edge of her public area, which, to your amazement, was neatly trimmer and a brunette shade.

As you comprehended what you were actually looking at, you stepped away, hands rubbing at your sides like you’d made the gravest mistake possible, scared that Natasha would be upset for revealing so much of her body. However, the assassin was unphased and began to pull her arms from her uniform, pushing the black material off her shoulders, down her waist and hips and then kicking off her shoes and attire, leaving it in a pile on the floor.

“You… You don’t wear any underwear beneath your uniform”, you whispered beneath your breath in awe before quickly looking at that entertaining patch of carpet on the floor, realising you’d been staring at her naked body. Your entire body heated with embarrassment and arousal as you crossed one leg over the other to try and squeeze your thighs together to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling. 

Natasha shrugged at your observation, “I find that the uniform is so tight that I can’t wear any underwear without the seams being seen, so it’s easier to go without”. Nodding your head at her explanation, you continued looking anywhere but at her. Natasha took a dainty step towards you, her smile growing more prominent, “Are you afraid of nakedness?”

You make a point of forcing yourself to look at her whilst folding your arms over your chest. “No, of course not. I just thought it would be polite to give you some privacy”.

Natasha bites the inside of her lips to stop from just outright grinning and laughing in your face. “I don’t mind. You can look”, she quips whilst raising one of her eyebrows suggestively.

You weren’t sure if this was a test, but as your eyes lowered, you thanked whatever gods were listening to this one moment that you would remember for the rest of your life. She was well toned, given her lifestyle and training methods, and scars littered over her body, which was evidence of her work as stabbings or gunshots clearly created them. You were mesmerised by her beauty, from her perfectly trimmed mound, her toned abs, and up to her round, full breasts.

Until that is, something piqued your interest, “Do you have your nipples pierced?”

Natasha tipped her head back and laughed, looking down at her perked nipples with a shrug of her shoulders, making them jiggle with the movement. “Yeah, they’ve made me quite sensitive, but I thought it would be fun. Plus, they’re super cute”.

“You are”, you say, admiring her breasts, but then your eyes go wide in shock, realising what you’d just said and the soft tone you’d said it in. “I mean, they are- the piercings are -I didn’t mean to sound inappropriate, sorry. I didn’t mean- I just- I wasn't, um-”

Natasha took a step forward, closing the gap entirely so that you could now feel the warmth of her skin; she was that close. Her beautiful, naked body within your bubble, you never wanted it to leave.

“It’s ok, I know what you meant. You’re cute when you’re all embarrassed”.

“I…I am?” you say, looking at her like she had grown another head because there was no way Natasha Romanoff just called you cute in any sense of the word, especially when you’re whining away anxiously.

“You are. Might be why I asked you to come and help me rather than the others. Nothing like a cute girl helping to undress me”. You flush at the obvious flirtatious advances, trying your hardest to continue looking into her forest-green eyes that seem to delve deep into your soul. “You’re even more cuter when you’re like this. Reacting more to my words than my naked body. God, I could just eat you right up.” Natasha lifts her slender fingers and runs the back of them over your eyes and around your ear. “I’ve been watching you, y’know?. It's so hard to talk to a cute girl like you when you’re running away from me every time I enter the room”.

“I’m just nervous”, you say and instantly chastise yourself for stating the obvious.

It doesn’t, phas Natasha thought as her other hand gently grasped yours, interlocking your fingers as she stated, “I know. You don’t have to be nervous, Sugar. I only want good things, I promise”.

She lifts the hand that is holding hers, kissing the palm ever so softly and then moves it so you’re holding her face. “You don’t have to be nervous to do anything with me”, Natasha continues, “I want you to feel safe with me. I want to get to know you on a personal and physical way, if you understand what I’m alluding to”.

Your mouth didn’t want to work, with the worry of just blurting out that you were in love with her, so you nodded your head to show your understanding. Being brave, you allowed your fingers to explore her sharp cheekbones, admiring the delicateness of her skin and shocked when she even began to nuzzle into your palm.

“Can I touch you?” she asks sincerely, her eyes wide with hope and yet restrained, not wanting to frighten you off. As your fingers brush through her silky hair, you nod your head, wanting her very much to touch you in any way possible.

Natasha lifts both hands to press against your hairline, exploring your face like she was trying to map every inch of you. Lower she descended, over your cheeks, your nose and finally your lips, pulling on the bottom one with her thumb, which had your eyes automatically dropping to look at hers.

You want to kiss so severely that it almost makes you ache and beg. It seemed Natasha also knew this and had another idea in mind as she implored in the most innocent voice, “Touch me lower”.

You do as instructed, over her jaw and down her long neck, then press her collarbones again, wondering if this is the area where you should stop. However, Natasha raises her eyebrow again in question, so you take that as your queue to explore lower. Your eyes never leave hers as your fingers run down the centre of her sternum, directly between her breasts, until they stop at the base of her sternum.

Deciding to be brave for once in your life, your fingers skimmed the underside of her heavy breasts, and you watched in delight as her breath hitched, chest leaning into the touch. You take this as a good sign and reach for her hard nipples that have a simple metal bar through the centre.

Natasha groans, even though all you’ve done is graze over the bundle of nerves. “So sensitive”, she explains and reminds you of her predicament.

Pulling your hand away, thinking you’d done something she didn’t want, you apologise quickly, “Sorry!”

However, with her lightning-fast reaction, Natashas quickly grabs your retreating hands and pulls them back to cup her again. “I like it. I like everything you do to me and want to do”.

Before you can overthink anymore, Natasha is pressing her face towards yours, eyes closing and lips connecting with yours. Your whole body reacts instantly, leaning closer and mewling into her mouth, pushing harder. Her lips were so plump they felt like soft, warm clouds against your face, and you’re obsessed, crazy for more, never wanting this moment to stop.

But of course, it does as Nat pulls back for a second, and you’re trying to chase after her with your lips, which causes the woman to giggle. “Can I take this off?” she asks, pulling on the bottom of your shirt. You nod, heart beating so hard on your chest you were sure she would be able to hear. Lifting your arms above your head, Natasha removes the article of clothing and begins to admire your black bra. “I love this”. She eyes it for a second before realising that it unclasps from the front. Natasha internally praised you for being so beautiful as she reached to undo the clasp, exposing your breasts to her.

She moans in wonderment at your beauty, cursing herself for waiting this long before making a move. Natasha couldn’t wait any long as her head dipped to lick across your nipple, causing your back to arch to press her face closer, and your fingers gripped into her hair to hold her there.

Something seemed to snap in you, whether the confidence blooming in your core or the anxiety melting away. Either way, you were in this situation, and there was no way you were letting it go to waste. As the red-haired woman sealed her lips around your other nipple, licking and sucking the bud into her mouth, you swiftly pulled her off by your hands behind in her hair, but only to kiss her deeply and passionately.

Whether it was your enthusiasm to kiss her or Natasha’s excitement that you were beginning to feel more confident, something knocked the two of you back so that you were now led on her perfectly made bed. Natasha doesn’t waste a second and is climbing on top of you, straddling your waste with her naked body now hovering over yours. You touch her everywhere now, her thighs, over her arse to pull her hips closer, up her back to then cup her head.

It was everything you wanted and more; couldn’t get enough of her taste, smell, and warmth. Everything about her, you wanted it every day, all the time. She was sweet and delicate with you, but eventually, Natasha too was becoming fevering with her touches and needing more of you.

“I wanna taste you”, she admits against your lips, just as her tongue dares to peek before yours.

“Are you sure?” you asked uncertainly.

Natasha laughed against your mouth, moving to kiss down your throat over the areas that had your toes curling as she confirmed, “Yes, I’m sure I want to eat you out.”

Your only answer was a grin that caused your cheeks to ache with how giddy you felt. Natasha kissed your lips once more before shuffling down your body, leaving a trail of open mouth kisses, tasting every area of your skin she could reach, and spending special particular attention on your breasts. Teasing and sucking on them until you begged her to move lower with how intense your arousal was becoming. 

Natasha noted this, deciding that the next time the two of you were intimate, she wanted to see if she could make you cum just by nipple stimulation. Lower she moved, every touch was gentle and calm, even as she unbuttoned your jeans and began to lower them as well as your underwear down your legs, with the help of you lifting your hips, her fingers still were careful about where she touched.

She then began her journey up, kissing and licking all the places that were most sensitive, like your inner knee and thighs, until she was face to face with the area causing you the most ache.

Her eyes met yours, and a devilish smirk on her lips made you wonder what you had gotten yourself in for as her mouth met your more intimate areas. You broke eye contact first, but only because your body jolted, and you had to force your back to arch, spreading your legs further on the bed as your head tipped back.

Natasha's lips were just as plump and soft against your pussy as they were against your mouth. She kissed you there first, savouring the warmth and liquid that had already leaked from your cunt. The noises you were already whimpering were like music to her ears, so desperate and needy.

Carefully, her tongue licked long strips up your folds before adding pressure and parting them, moving deeper until she was poking at your hole that was already contracting with your arousal around nothing. She contemplated for a moment letting her tongue fuck you, but instead, she paid particular attention to your throbbing clit. Tentative, agonisingly slow circles did the tip of her tongue move around the bud before she pressed the flat front of her tongue and gave it a long lick.

“Natasha!” you cried out, hand moving to grip her hair to hold her there. Nat thought it was adorable seeing you falling apart like this so quickly. She hummed against your pussy which caused vibrations to purr into the nerves, which caused your thighs to tremble and clench with the stimulation.

Nat tickled the backs of your thighs to get them to relax again before travelling the length of the limb until the area where your tongue was still pleasuring. Her middle finger circled your eagerly awaiting hole, and as she sucked on the bundle of nerves, she inserted the finger carefully. In and out and moved before adding a second finger, beginning to stretch your cunt. Your hips began rolling of their own accord, desperate to match the pace of Natasha’s tongue and fingers, which had just started to curl to press against the sensitive spot inside you.

“That feels so good, right there!” Natasha didn’t plan on stopping making you feel this good, but she did contemplate just how pretty you’d look after being edged a few times. She just added that to the lengthening list of things she wanted to try with you in the future.

You had to bite your lower lip as your cries of joy were beginning to echo around the bedroom, still holding onto the red hair and essentially fucking yourself on her fingers and tongue. Opening your eyes, you looked down at the green eyes that were watching your every move.

“Please kiss me”, you asked desperately with a slight quiver in your voice as you were getting closer to orgasming.

Natasha grins, licking her lips and crawling back up your body whilst still curling her fingers, her thumb pressing and rolling your clit instead of her tongue. Her mouth was hungry against yours, forcing your lips wider so she could stroke your mouth's crevices, making sure you could taste yourself from her.

You reach out for her, wanting to feel her body just as badly as she wants to hear you cum, but she has other ideas. The hand you reached for her with was held firmly against the bed as Natasha shook her head. “This is just about you today; there will be so much more time for me in the future. Just enjoy this, Sugar”.

You could have melted at the pet name she’d picked and rushed forward to kiss her feverishly one more, hips rolling and working in time with the curl of her fingers and thumb. She was making you feel so good, expertly touching your body, gripping the back of your head to hold your close.

Resting her temple on yours, she looked at you with glazed eyes and demanded, “Cum for me; I want to see you cum on my fingers, pretty girl”. Her words had your core tightening in arousal, your mouth gaping open to gasp and share the same air as her she was that close to you. “That’s it, you’re doing so well for me. I know you’re close. I can feel it on my fingers; you’re so wet for me, so tight, Sugar. Cum for me”.

Your body convulsed as your orgasm rocketed through your very centre, thighs trembling, arms struggling to hold you up as your pussy squeezed in flutters around her fingers. She didn’t stop her rocking motion; those sweet curls of her two fingers, not under you, had sagged back onto the bed to catch your breath.

Carefully, she eased her fingers out of you, putting on a broad display of her licking your fingers and dramatically moaning at the taste before lying down next to you, resting her head on her elbow.

“Do you wanna go and get some food?  There’s a cute Italian place about half an hour from here”, Natasha asks casually whilst stroking your cheek with the hand that had just been between your legs.

“What? Like a date?” you asked with the tremor returning to your voice as you stared at her with widening eyes.

Natasha takes one look at you and laughs, tipping her head back with how funny she found it. “I’ve just licked you out and had you cumming on my fingers, and you’re getting nervous about a date? You’re too fucking cute, Sugar. Yes, it’s a date. What do you say?”

Your cheeks heat at her amusement, but you’re soon joining her with smiling, nodding your head and saying, “Yes, I’d love to go on this date with you”.

[aubvrns]

would you be up to write for alex based on your fav songs maybee

Gold Rush — T.S

| SVU & Stories

Sypnosis — The struggle of loving Alexandra Cabot from afar, who everyone wonders what must it be like to love her.

Note — Fluff, Light Angst, Admiring from Afar, Alex being a tease but oblivious, and avoidant Reader.

(Female lawyer centered, pronouns used!)

———————————————————————

!!

Gleaming, twinkling Eyes like sinking ships on waters So inviting, I almost jump in

“Y/N? Come down here, captain’s requesting your presence for the debriefing.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in 10.” You said, tying your hair up in a ponytail before dropping the call.

You grabbed your briefcase and complied all the documents needed for the case you were working on, organizing them by size.

John usually called you whenever you were needed in the precinct right after your arraignment, but you managed to arrange your time just in case. It took you exactly ten minutes to get there by taxi, thankful for the considerate couple who let you ride before them.

Upon your entrance, you paused mid-step, a frown forming as you spotted Alex seated across from Olivia and Elliot. Your eyes swept the room, taking in the scene. "Who died?"

"Y/N, sit, no one died." Olivia chuckled, gesturing towards the empty chair beside Alex.

You sat beside the blonde and slightly moving the chair at a distance, putting your briefcase beside the chair. You can feel Alex’s gaze on you and you could only clear your throat.

"Atleast not yet." Elliot placed a file on the table and you both leaned forward to read it, although you didn’t get much far. You felt as if your heart was beating out of your chest when you saw what it was about, looking at Olivia and all she could do was shrug.

"You want us to work together?" Alex questioned, her tone derisively condescending.

Elliot crossed his arms, "For this case, yes. We’ve got serial killing syndicates across Manhattan to Harlem, and we’ve processed none."

"Okay, but why me? You’ve got Casey." You asked before turning to Alex. "Not that I have anything against you, it’s just that—"

Oh my god, her blue eyes are so pretty.

Alex pursed her lips as she stared at you, "So you basically hate me? Okay, that’s alright."

You rolled your eyes, instinctively looking away before she could see your rose tinted cheeks.

"Casey’s on a well-deserved vacation. She isn’t coming back in a week, give the poor woman a break."

The brunette uttered, "Besides, you guys are best suited for this case. Together."

You sigh, fixating on your watch before Elliot touched your shoulder to get your attention. "Y/N, c’mon."

"When do we start anyway? So far, your evidence is still circumstantial." Alex asked, crossing her arms.

"Fin and Munch called from Bellevue. Estelle Bauldelaire was overdosed with Hallucinogens. Guess who was indicted for running an underground drug cartel?"

You furrowed your eyebrows, reading the file once again when he added,

"Her con girlfriend."

—

I don’t like a gold rush, gold rush I don’t like anticipating my face in a red flush I don’t like how anyone would die to feel your touch

Alex groaned at the columns that was messily distributed on the carpet. Her hands folding the papers, clearly frustrated. "This is sickening."

You sat on the floor with her, leaning back to the edge of the couch before helping her categorize the files.

"Don’t be so dramatic, Cabot. We haven’t even started yet."

She dragged an exasperated exhale and composing herself together. This wasn’t the first time you both worked on a case. The last case you’ve worked on together was successful at most, winning effortlessly.

Unfortunately, the only disadvantage was that you have had a something for her in forever.

A feeling in your chest that you couldn’t shake off everytime she was ever near you. How your cheeks heated up when she gives you the minimum of attention.

It was ridiculous. The way you couldn’t make eye contact when she was talking to you. You honestly felt like a teenager obsessing for sweaty basketball players during Field Day, that was exactly how it was with Alex.

"How can we work on our arguments when we don’t even have an indictment yet?" The blonde reasoned as she sipped from her coffee mug.

You played with the brim of the paper, "Well, Estelle is bound to go to trial. All we can do is sit here and wait."

A moment passed and the silence was deafening. You two were skimming throughout the textbooks following the Bauldelaire case, writing on colored sticky notes.

Then, a knock came onto the door, disrupting the adequate peace.

"Lex?" An unfamiliar man seeps in the door. Alex smiled and stood up, walking over to him.

With her hand on the side of the door, they talked together remotely which leaves you with your lonely, forlorn self. You wondered what on earth could be so funny that you heard Alex laugh, the soft sound warming your heart.

Alex welcomed him to her office, introducing him to you. "Y/N, this is Dr. Huang. If you don’t mind, he’ll stay here for awhile."

The doctor waved his hand to you, offering a warm smile before reaching to shake your hand.

You accepted, shaking your head in response, "No worries, I was about to leave anyway." Your nails dig against your palm, fixated on the documents you reviewed before uncluttering the mess.

Really, when you said we haven’t even started? Alex thought and watching you clean after yourself. She didn’t want you to go so soon, but assumed it was because of the unfamiliarity.

You wish you hadn’t made such a disorganized space. It was awkward to crawl on the floor as the two chat in front of you. You saw how he fixed her hair, tucking it behind her ears, making you want to crawl out of your skin.

Fortunately, you finished putting all the documents and notes inside your briefcase. With a simple glance, you take in Alex once again. Looking at her smile as she talked to the doctor made you wish it was you she was talking to.

Bidding goodbye, you exit the office with a heavy exhale, alongside a heavy heart.

—

Everybody wants you Everybody wonders what it would be like to love you Walk past, quick brush I don’t like slow motion, double vision in a rose blush

A few days later, you had finished practicing, done reviewing, and gone to the precinct.

You stopped at a local bistro to order coffee, from a very pleading request by the captain. They forgot to restock their needs, and luckily, you were patient enough to buy some.

You got out of your car, firmly holding the cups as you press the buttons on the elevator.

When you arrived to the floor, you were swarmed by alot of civilians. They kept yelling, being strided away by the detectives.

Because of the cramped area, you were pushed by the people backwards causing you to spill a cup of coffee to a woman’s shirt.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" The lady barked, causing you to flinch slightly at the volume of her voice.

"I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

The next thing you know, a hot, searing pain came running down your shirt. You wince in affliction, dropping the rest of the cups on a table before escorting yourself out of the room. You were truly sorry, but you couldn’t handle the embarassment of it all.

Thankfully, the bathroom was empty.

You locked the door, taking your blazer off. Luckily, you have always brought an extra shirt in your briefcase.

But your smile quickly falters when you realize you left it in your car.

Closing your eyes, you accepted defeat. You should have been more careful, and if you were, you wouldn’t have been drenched in coffee.

A knock came to the door caught your attention. You hands frantically put on your blazer, "Wait a second!" You exclaimed, unable to hook the buttons properly.

"It’s Alex. You okay in there?"

You slowly opened the door, revealing the concerned woman. You bite your lip in unease and let her inside the comfort room.

"Can you give these to the woman and tell her I feel sorry? It should be enough to dry her shirt."

You handed her a packet of wipes. But instead of accepting it, she took a wipe and rubbed it on your what-was-once pristine shirt.

"You shouldn’t feel sorry, Y/L/N. What she said and did was so out of line. It was just an accident."

You slightly panic, feeling her wipe your skin. Out of the awkwardness, you gently take the wipe from her, "Thank you. I really think I should get home, though,"

She gave you this sorry look, taking your hand in hers before opening her mouth to speak. "I’ll tell the others you had an emergency. But why did you buy coffee?"

"Captain called me asking if I had time to stop by. Why?"

"I already bought the squad coffee with Huang. Olivia asked us before we left my office."

Oh.

You’ve been waiting for twenty minutes for their order, swarmed by half the population, and drenched in caffeine. In conlusion, you went through the depths of hell.

You let out a breathy exhale, exhausted and uncomfortable. Your eyes stared to prickle, and you knew you had to leave.

"I have to go."

As you walked out of the bathroom, the feeling of your hands leave hers. Alex called out, "Y/N, wait—"

Alex followed after you, only to be called out by Dr. Huang. She stops, her eyes drop apologetically and watching you walk away.

She saw your eyes glance back at her, with George beside her. Your tired eyes, closing with the doors of the elevator.

She didn’t want you to go.

If only you knew.

—

But I don’t like a gold rush What must it be like to grow up that beautiful? With your hair falling into place like dominoes My mind turns your life into folklore

The evening passed fairly quickly, a storm brewing in the sky. You had took a long shower, yet the sting left a bruise. You applied ointment on your chest, squirming at the desolation. You were unsure if it was just the sting that hurt you, or the fact that you were jealous.

You had no right to, anyway. It’s just that you and Alex once picked up coffee for the squad, and hearing her do the same with someone else hurt your feelings. But you weren’t special. You were just a colleague.

Her warmth remained like the sun. So tender, yet so far. You could only watch as she shines her light for others, dreaming you were her favorite flower.

When you came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around you, the doorbell rang.

It was late in the evening, who could be outside your apartment this behind?

You walked down the stairs, the towel secured around your body. You look out the window, and you saw a familiar blonde.

You open the door, close to ajar. "What are you doing here? It’s raining, Alex." You opened the door, a gesture for her to come in.

She was damp, assuming she ran from her car to your doorstep. You rushed to give her fresh towel, placing it over her shoulders.

"We aren’t dating."

"What?"

"We aren’t dating."

You narrow your eyes in confusion, "What do you mean, Alex?" You close the door before the rain seeps into your apartment.

"Me and Huang, We aren’t—"

She was crying.

You stood there, unsure what to do. You have never saw Alex cry, let alone infront of you. You quiver in silence, letting her proceed.

"We aren’t dating, okay? So stop running away from me like you hate me!" She blurted, her composed mask slipped away.

You furrowed your eyebrows, "What do you mean I hate you? I don’t hate you, Alex!"

Even if I tried to.

She wiped her eyes, breathing uneven, "Then why do you keep avoiding me? Why do you keep bolting away when I’m trying to be there for you?"

"It’s because I like you, okay!"

Alex stared at you in shock, her attention was drawn to your nails digging your palm. A habit you did when you were tense. She noticed. She always had.

"I liked you from the moment I met you, and the feeling never went away. I tried to convince myself that I didn’t, but I couldn’t. How could I possibly do when simply seeing you makes my heart beat out of my chest? It’s—," You breathe, your heartbeat quickened as she looked at you.

"It’s ridiculous, and I avoid you because of it. I know you don’t feel the same way, Alex. But I told you because I don’t hate you. I really don’t—"

Alex cut you off with a soft kiss and Oh, Her lips are so soft- She brought her hand to cup your cheek as your hands went up over her neck.

You traced her jawline with your thumb as you kissed while her other hand was at your waist delicately digging your fingers into your towel, holding your body close.

You pulled away, breathing heavily.

She stared at you, her hands remained on your waist. In her eyes, with ever so adoration, looked into yours.

"How do you know I don’t feel the same way? Are you psychic? Because I do, from the moment I met you."

Quoting your words, you were lost for any. You expected her to let you go, but her arms stayed where as they were.

"I won’t let you run away again, ever." Her head found its way to the crook of your neck, feeling her inhale your scent.

"But what about Dr. Huang? Doesn't he like you?" You softly said. Remaining still as you savor the moment between you and the blonde, she pressed a kiss to your shoulder blades.

"God, I forgot your gaydar was so bad."

!!

[the-new-kiddo-on-the-block]

So...

Am I the only one who noticed that Luigi Mangione is absolutely, 100%, without a shadow of a doubt, not the same guy who shot up the United Healthcare CEO, Brian Thompson?

Like, was I the only one paying attention to the fact that the guy had cleaned up eyebrows that were either tweezed and or threaded? And as someone who used to regularly thread their eyebrows, that hair does not grow back within a week, let alone five days. It takes a full month or better before it gets back to hairy bushiness.

Not to mention, the original shooter did not have a green jacket on, no no, I'm pretty sure that jacket was either heather gray or black (idk, the lighting at that moment made it hard to tell). But it was definitely not green.

This kid they have got locked up, Luigi Mangione-- he's a Fall Guy. He's not the one they're looking for. Sorry peeps, as much as he's an Italian heartthrob... Well, he's not the one everyone she be looking for..

And if that's not enough, how about his spinal injury?

Spondylolisthesis, to be precise?

And how he got a botched spinal fusion surgery, in an attempt to fix it?

Do you genuinely think that man would be even remotely comfortable enough to attempt to ride to the place of the crime, or to get away after, on a city bike, without being in some incredibly excruciating pain??

I'm sorry.

That man is innocent until proven guilty, under the constitutional fifth amendment, under due process of law:

"No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation." -5th Amendment, the United States Constitution.

[daylighted]

the girl behind the wheel . . . dean winchester & reader !

summary. the last thing dean expected was for his car to disappear & in its place, you to be left. he also never expected to have to worry, still, about you getting stolen. warnings. men r pigs!! sequel to this ask !

it's not like you asked to be made into a human or anything. dean seemed to operate on that idea, though, that this was all your choice. he looked at you with pure grief in his eyes, and something that seemed much more akin to exasperation than the unwilling reluctance you thought he was beginning to fall into.

"i have to get a new car." he's openly, dramatically, pouting.

you shrug. his jacket has now become your jacket, because shoplifting clothes for you meant snatching the cheap shit in the back of the store that people wouldn't realize were missing until it was too late, which left you in summery clothes in the dead of winter.

"that's all you have to say for yourself?"

dean is looking at you with that quizzical stare he gets, like he expects you to have some sort of answer for why you were like this. you didn't know. you just got here.

"steal one." you look around the parking lot of the little strip mall he'd taxi'ed you both to, and nod toward a big black truck towering above the other cars. "that one."

dean follows the direction of your finger and snorts. "no way in hell. that guy's gonna notice immediately that that thing is missing."

just like how dean noticed that you were missing, when the tides shifted or the moon phased at a certain time, and suddenly you were a girl by a light pole and not a car parked under the streetlight. that was understandable.

dean runs a hand over his face, turning his back to you again in that way that didn't fully seem to indict you, but it didn't really make you feel like an innocent party in this.

you could help. of course you could help. dean wanted a car, that car was the scariest in the area, he couldn't take that one with force, so...

the front windshield has "DEER HUNTIN" sprawled into the glass in an ugly, abrasive font. dean was a hunter. he wore lots of layers, even when he'd be driving in the dead of summer. you just needed to find a guy in lots of layers.

so you disappear, ducking into one of the little businesses in the mall with hunting & fishing goods on the big sign out front. everyone in there sort of looks the same, the whole place smells a little like oil and a lot like dirt and hay, and you think that you've made a poor judgement call until you find him.

big guy, as big as the truck in the parking lot. camouflage hat and jacket. dirt all over his jeans. a t-shirt beneath the jacket that says i like my girls like i like my bucks: big and horny. he's your guy. he's so your guy.

"hi, sir," you say, trying to puff out your chest in that way that dean hates but makes you feel a little bit taller and on his level. the guy looks over at you in a way that dean also does, sometimes, but he's much more obvious about it than dean is. "is that yours?"

you point to the truck in the parking lot.

the guy puffs his chest up, too, and now you really don't know why dean hates it, when it just seems to be a dude thing. "it sure is, pretty thing," he drawls, putting the box of ammo back on the shelf, "you want a ride in it?"

"no thank you." you hold out your hand instead. "can i have the keys?"

he laughs. your face visibly falls, and he laughs a little harder. "won't go for a ride with me but expects me to fork over my keys. i'll be damned. what's your name?"

"baby."

"baby," he doesn't say it like dean does, with awe and reverence and sentiment. he says it like it tastes filthy in his mouth. "tell you what. go on a little ride with me, and i'll let you take it for a spin."

"no thank you." how many times did a girl have to tell a man no? seriously. "i just want the keys."

the door to the shop dings, the echo of the bell ricocheting around the spacious area. "baby?" dean's voice. you are so helpless to the way that you light up at the sound of it. "baby, you better—"

he cuts himself off, his eyes landing directly on you. you can always tell when dean's looking at you. there's something physical and innate in the way his gaze rests like its own sort of blanket over your skin.

the guy behind you nods toward dean. "that your boyfriend?"

"no. that's my driver."

you could not possibly be more clear, but the guy's face twists up. "so why the hell do you need my keys?"

dean is at your side now, a hand on your hip and a grimace on his face. he tends to wear that look a lot around you, now, even though you still catch glimpses of the fondness when he thinks you're not looking.

"she doesn't." dean pulls you a little more into his side, and you grin. he's always so warm. "sorry 'bout that."

"keep your girl leashed, alright?" the guy scoffs, turning back to the shelves full of ammo boxes. "she's tryin' to get into trouble she can't handle."

you could handle a lot of things. you'd been crashed a few times. you'd been long overdue of an oil change. you were pretty sure that dean was conceived in you, which was an entirely other sort of thing you didn't even want to think about. were doing pretty well without thinking on it, thank you. you could handle things, and it wasn't fair that this stranger thought he knew you based on one interaction that you were certain was going just fine.

dean seems to sense that you're about to dig a deeper hole for yourself, and so he starts to tug you away. "yeah, yeah, she's leashed," dean grumbles, his teeth gritted together. he doesn't like the guy either, it seems.

you barely take a step away before dean's turning to you again with that look of unadulterated exasperation. again. "what the hell was all that?"

"you said we couldn't steal it because he'd know." like, did dean just... forget that conversation in a two minute span, or what? "so i went to ask him for the keys."

dean's lips flatten. he's really, seriously trying to keep the blank expression but the twitch of his dimples gives away his amusement. "no."

"yes." you reach into dean's jacket pocket over your shoulders and hold out the keys. "got them, too."

"he gave them over?"

you smile. and that's how you know that dean was yours and you were his, and that even if he was getting premature gray hairs from you, he still adored you. "no. i was just letting him know i was taking it. i wasn't really asking."

dean laughs this time. well and truly laughs, holding the shop's door open for you. "you are somethin' else."

"i'm helping," you correct, looking down at the key fob in your fingers. you press the unlock button, but the truck's headlights don't light up. it sits as idle as ever.

the car next to it, a model close to yours but not quite as well taken care of, beeps in acknowledgement.

you pass the keys over to dean, practically skipping toward the impala in utter glee. the cards always worked in your favor, didn't they? you'd been with the winchesters for three generations, passed down like an heirloom, but this was the one that loved you the most, and now you could finally show it.

"scratch that, baby," dean says as he catches up to you, catching you around the waist to drag you in for a kiss on the temple, "you're a goddamn godsent."

yes. you definitely were.

notes. forgot i wrote the first part to this, and then this came into my head, and it made me giggle so i had to write it. pls enjoy

tags. @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @theosaurous @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @aileenunfiltered @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @sunsettsam @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @hyacinnths @couturewinx @blushpinkdoll @mccartneyqp @svbnra